Approaching Paradox
by blissedoutvixen
Summary: At the beginning of an already hectic third year, thirteen year old Hermione Granger is wrenched back in time to 1973 after an accident with her time turner. But if Sirius Black grows up to be a mass murderer, why does Hermione find herself so drawn to him? And why does Peter Pettigrew make her so uneasy? Eventual SBHG. Very slow burn. Currently rated T, will change to M later.
1. Before She Falls

_AN: *emerges into the post college sun from beneath a rock* Er, hi. Been a while. I know there are about a million Sirius/Hermione time travel fics, but I've been inspired to add mine to the pile. Hope you guys enjoy. As always, please let me know if you spot any mistakes and I will do my best to fix them ASAP. I don't have a beta reader, so if you have any complaints, I invite you to volunteer as tribute._

* * *

Chapter 1: Before She Falls

It was the morning of September 5th, and Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were engaging in what was already a becoming a very tired argument at the Gryffindor breakfast table. This, despite the fact that it was only the fourth day of their third year term.

"I just don't understand why you hate my cat!" Hermione was saying for what must have been the umpteenth time that morning alone. Or so it seemed to Harry Potter, who was sitting next to the arguing pair, and doing his level best to stay out of the crossfire and simply focus on his toast.

"Well first off, it's unbelievably ugly-"

"Ron!" Hermione gasped in outrage, aghast on behalf of her new familiar. "He is _not_!"

"AND," Ron continued loudly, cutting Hermione off, "it's got it in for Scabbers!"

He said this in a triumphant tone, as if Crookshanks' dislike of his pet rat settled the matter of the feline's character once and for all.

Hermione scoffed. "Crookshanks is a cat, Ronald, they aren't exactly known for their natural affinity for rats! You can't blame him for acting on instinct! And I'd appreciate it if you would stop referring to my cat as an 'it'. Crookshanks is a boy, and very handsome one."

"You're deluded," Ron said flatly. Harry, who privately agreed with Ron that Crookshanks was indeed, very ugly, quickly shoved a bit of toast in his mouth in order to keep from laughing.

Hermione, on the other hand, was far from amused. "If you think that it's anything but normal behavior for a cat to chase after a rat, then you are the one who's deluded Ronald," she said, folding her arms across her chest defensively.

"I think that beast has got it particularly in for Scabbers!"

"Well!" Hermione said huffily. "Maybe there's just something particularly nasty about Scabbers, did you ever think of that?"

Ron's mouth dropped open in a rather unflattering expression of stupefied outrage. "You've got some nerve, Hermione!"

"You're the one who-"

"If you two are quite done, I think we had better get a move on to Herbology," Harry interjected quietly.

Hermione promptly closed her mouth, and with a considerable air of righteous indignation, began to pack up her things.

A few minutes later, it was in a rather tense fashion that the trio made their way across the Hogwarts lawn to the greenhouses for their first Herbology class of the year.

* * *

Hermione was exhausted. It was only the second week of term, and already she felt like she needed a calming draught. Professor McGonagall had warned her that using the time turner would be an adjustment, and Hermione was finding that it certainly was. Quite aside from the bizarre and disorienting effect of traveling back and forth through time, and frequently being in two places at once, Hermione found that the most disconcerting aspect of the whole thing was having to hide it from her friends. She hated lying to Harry and Ron so much. Every time they questioned her, it felt as if the time turner was an albatross around her neck, dragging her down and burning a hole in her chest where it was hidden beneath her sweater. Obviously, she appreciated the tremendous opportunity she had been given; she felt incredibly lucky to be able to attend all the extra classes she otherwise wouldn't have been able to. But she wouldn't pretend that it wasn't difficult at times. And it wasn't just the time turner that was sending her stress level skyrocketing either; there was also the matter of Sirius Black.

It felt like Black was a specter casting a pall over the entirety of the Hogwarts, and Hermione found that her usual start of term excitement had been dampened a bit by the aura of fear and paranoia which currently permeated the castle. It had been frightening enough over the summer to find out that there was a terrifying mass murderer on the loose in wizarding Britain, but when they had found out that he was after Harry, it had all become so much worse. Sirius Black wasn't just an abstract threat, he was after one of her best friends. And Harry attracted trouble the way the Weasley twins attracted detentions; with worrying frequency. Hermione was scared for him.

That absolute nonsense with Trelawney predicting his death in their first Divination lesson certainly hadn't helped matters. _There_ was a course she actually wouldn't mind dropping. What a load of utter nonsense! It was only serving to make everyone even more paranoid, and that was something they most definitely didn't need at the moment. She just hoped Harry wasn't taking it too seriously. He was so introspective about his own emotions that sometimes she couldn't tell. She and Ron were so often close to the surface; 'emotionally expressive', as her mother would say, but Harry tended to burry things.

And that was another thing! Ron was making a right arse out of himself over her cat. She simply didn't understand how he could be so irrational about the entire matter. In her most shamefully vindictive moments, Hermione couldn't help but hope that Scabbers would just die already so they could put the matter to rest. After all, she reasoned, twelve years was an exceptionally long time for a common garden rat like Scabbers to live; death had to be coming soon. It was actually quite strange that Scabbers was still alive, Hermione thought curiously. Maybe he was under some sort of spell? Of course, if Scabbers actually were to die, Ron would probably claim that it was brought on by stress and unfairly blame Crookshanks. The whole situation was a frightful mess.

On top of everything else, Hagrid's first Care of Magical Creatures class had been an unmitigated disaster, thanks to Malfoy and his unprecedented depths of both stupidity and arrogance. She, Harry and Ron had wanted so badly for Hagrid to do well, and now Malfoy had gone and mucked it all up. Hagrid had pivoted drastically from the excitement of his first lesson, and was now glumly teaching them how to care for such mundane creatures as flobberworms. It was hardly what she imagined Hagrid wanted to be doing (what _any_ of them wanted to be doing), but the giant of a man had been understandably cowed by the experience with Malfoy and the hippogriff. An inquiry was now underway, driven by Lucius Malfoy's position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and it all just seemed hopelessly unfair. So all in all, Hermione had a litany of reasons for which to be stressed out this year; the time turner being just one of them.

Despite her stress and exhaustion, Hermione found that she was greatly enjoying her classes so far, with the notable exceptions of Divination and Care of Magical Creatures, now that they were stuck with flobberworms and a moping Hagrid. On the bright side, it seemed they finally had a competent Defense against the Dark Arts teacher in Professor Lupin. In retrospect, Hermione could now admit that Lockhart had been a talentless hack, and she was embarrassed that she had been even momentarily blinded to his inadequacies by a childish crush. From their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express, when he had acted so decisively with the dementor, Hermione found that she could respect Professor Lupin. It was a pleasant deviation from their previous DADA teachers. She highly doubted Lupin would turn out to be either a murderous stooge for the Dark Lord or a fraudulent coward. So things were looking up on that front.

The man was a bit strange though, Hermione mused. He seemed quite as exhausted as she was, which, frankly, was something of an achievement, albeit a dubious one. And a few times she thought she had caught Professor Lupin looking at her in rather a strange manner; almost a puzzled sadness. It was quite unnerving. But perhaps, Hermione reasoned, she was imagining it. Even though it was just the beginning of term, she was already under quite a bit of stress, what with all her extra classes and the commensurate homework load. Her sleep schedule had suffered considerably, and the time turner was disorienting all on its own. It was only reasonable to think that her perceptions might be a little off at the moment, while she was still adjusting to everything. And after all, what possible reason could Professor Lupin have to look at her in such a way?

* * *

"My birthday is in a week," Hermione said aloud, as she, Harry and Ron navigated a particularly drafty corridor on their way to charms one September morning.

Ron raised a ginger eyebrow. "Is that a hint, Hermione?" he asked playfully.

"No," she said with a mild eye roll for her friend. "Only I've just realized."

Ron stared. "You forgot about your own birthday? Even I remembered, and I'm rubbish at those sorts of things. I even got you something!"

"Because I reminded you," Harry put in wryly.

Hermione grinned at them both, touched that they had remembered her birthday, even if Ron had had a little help. "That's very sweet boys, I appreciate it. And I didn't forget," she said primly. "It simply snuck up on me. I've been quite busy with all my classes, and the start of term is always hectic."

"I suppose," Ron mumbled, as though he were skeptical that these were proper excuses for forgetting one's own birthday.

While she didn't acknowledge it aloud, Hermione _was_ a bit surprised that she had only remembered her birthday just now. The time turner was messing with her sense of time more than she had expected. But in any case, she would be fourteen in a week, and that was something to look forward to. A bright spot in the bleakness that had so far characterized this term.

* * *

It was four days before her fourteenth birthday when Hermione had what could only be termed an unfortunate encounter with Professor Trelawney in the seventh floor girls' toilet. Little did she know how fateful said encounter would turn out to be.

Hermione was just exiting one of the stalls, when she found herself confronted with an overwhelming smell of mothballs, tinged with a bit of what she thought might be sherry. Professor Trelawney had just swished into the bathroom in all her malodorous glory, the bangles on her wrists clinking in what Hermione thought was a highly irritating manner. When she caught sight of Hermione, Trelawney stopped abruptly, swaying slightly on her feet, before pinning the girl with a disconcertingly shrewd look.

"It's you," she said, which Hermione thought was quite a rude way to greet a student. She set about quickly washing her hands, desperate to escape her Divination Professor's presence as quickly as possible. She hardly liked or respected the woman, much less her supposed area of expertise, and she had the feeling her Professor had similarly negative feelings about her.

Undeterred by Hermione's clear desire to get away from her, Professor Trelawney continued to address her. "The fates have informed me we will not be seeing you very much longer, my dear."

Hermione turned to face her. "Excuse me?" she queried. Was Professor Trelawney insinuating that she was going to drop her class? Well, Hermione, wouldn't lie, she had been considering it. She had enough on her plate without the load of rubbish that was Divination. She highly doubted, however, that the so called 'fates' had informed Trelawney of any such plans of hers.

"It will not be long now." Trelawney was telling her.

Hermione scoffed, flicking water off her hands in a rather more aggressive manner than normal "We'll see," she said tightly.

"Indeed," Professor Trelawney responded, widening her bug like eyes as though she had just made some kind of significant pronouncement.

"You are positively inane!" Hermione declared, shutting off the tap angrily and striding toward the bathroom door. Normally she would never dream of being so disrespectful towards a teacher, but Professor Trelawney was simply beyond the pale.

"She's mad!" Hermione muttered to herself as she hurried down the corridor, drawing the stares of several portrait subjects. "Absolutely mad!"

Well, she had made up her mind now, Hermione decided as she began to descend the seventh floor staircase; she was dropping Divination, and she didn't care if that made Professor Trelawney's supposed 'prediction' accurate. That class was a detriment to her mental health. She could scarcely believe how Trelawney had just accosted her. In the loo, of all places! It occurred to Hermione that she was now three for three on traumatic experiences in girls' bathrooms at Hogwarts. First year there had been the incident with the troll, second year the Chamber of Secrets (not to mention accidently turning herself into a cat), and now this! It was becoming something of a worrying pattern, she thought darkly.

So consumed was Hermione by her torrent of righteous anger toward her batty Divination Professor, that she didn't notice when the staircase began to move. Suddenly, just as Hermione was thinking that perhaps she ought to just avoid bathrooms altogether, the normally smooth trajectory of the staircases' movement was altered and it gave a great lurch. With a choked gasp, Hermione lost her balance, and when the stairway jerked once more, she found herself tumbling backwards over the edge of it. Air rushed up all around her as she hurtled downward, her body flipping this way and that like a dolls, and she found that she could not distinguish between the rushing sound of the air and her own screams. It was either an eternity or seconds later that Hermione hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch. The sound of her body hitting the floor covered the sound of breaking glass as her time turner shattered; shards of glass embedding themselves in her chest like a million sharp needles, and the sands of time mixing with her blood. Hermione registered none of this, for her world had gone black.

* * *

Padma Patil was screaming hysterically. She had been on her way to dinner, when she had stumbled upon the body of her fellow third year. She had been screaming hysterically ever since, and she was still screaming when she was happened upon by Professor McGonagall.

Before she could reprimand the child and instruct her to cease her infernal wailing, Professor McGonagall caught sight of the body. The normally composed witches' face crumbled, and all the color drained from her visage as if she had suddenly been set upon by a vampire.

She rushed toward Hermione, turning the child's body over to face upward. Professor McGonagall gasped at the sight of her student's blood soaked chest, eyeing the unusual wound with great worry. Wandlessly, she conjured a patronus. "Fetch Madam Pomfrey." She ordered it hoarsely. "And the Headmaster! Fetch the Headmaster!"

"I am here, Minerva." Dumbledore said, appearing just as Professor McGonagall's spectral cat vanished around the corner. His voice was exceptionally grave.

Reaching for Hermione's wrist, Minerva McGonagall felt for a pulse. She could find none. "Gracious, Albus," she said, turning hopelessly to the Headmaster. "I believe she's dead."


	2. An Ominous Arrival

Chapter 2: An Ominous Arrival

There was a bird cawing shrilly. Not an owl, as would be quite typical at Hogwarts, but something else. A crow perhaps. Or a raven, Hermione mused vaguely. Whatever it was though, the repeated noise of its' call was making her head ache fiercely. Absently, she raised a hand in order to probe the pain, only to find that her normally bushy hair was wet and flattened on one side of her head; matted down with something sticky. That was strange, Hermione thought blurrily; her normally quick mind struggling to make sense of the information. Her ears were buzzing, and everything felt muddled. It was as though her head had been filled with cotton on the inside. The outside of her head, meanwhile, felt as though it had been whacked upside rather harshly with a beaters bat. And the pounding in her skull was being made particularly unbearable by the continuous cawing of that bothersome bird of as of yet indeterminate species.

Her back was wet as well, Hermione realized. Was she outside? How did that happen, she wondered, dragging her fingers through what felt like grass wet with dew. She had been inside, hadn't she? Yes. She remembered. She had been arguing with Professor Trelawney. Hermione's nose wrinkled; such an odious woman. She had decided once and for all to drop Divination. But how had she gotten outside?

With a disconcerting amount of effort, Hermione slowly managed to drag open her eyes. It was an effort she quickly came to regret when she was confronted with an unforgivingly, blinding sun which did no favours at all for her aching skull. Definitely outside then, she determined. In an effort to escape the glare of the sun, Hermione gingerly turned her head to the side. The move set off a wave of dizziness, and Hermione roiled at the onslaught of unpleasant, disorienting sensation, closing her eyes once more in an effort to abate it. All of this, simply from the small action of turning her head. Something, Hermione was realizing, was terribly wrong. However she had gotten outside, it had clearly not been a pleasant journey. Indeed, she was developing a sickening suspicion that the mysterious, sticky, substance matting down her normally buoyant hair was blood.

Panting, she opened her eyes once more. Squinting against the light, she was able to make out an expanse of what looked like large, orange orbs in the distance. Hermione had never needed glasses. In point of fact, she had impeccable vision. Only something seemed to be wrong with it at the moment, and everything was blurry. Orange orbs, orange orbs; Hermione's mind was spinning, trying to determine what the nonsensical objects were and what possible clue they could provide as to her location.

Pumpkins! They were pumpkins, she realized suddenly. And beyond the pumpkins, when she strained her eyes, Hermione could just make out a small, hodgepodge of a cottage. Hagrid. She was near Hagrid's! Hermione could have laughed out loud with incredulous relief if there hadn't been such a painful stitch in her chest. Now she just had to get to Hagrid's door somehow, and desperately hope that her kind friend of unusual size happened to be home. But Hermione was about to discover that making her way to Hagrid's would not be such an easy task. The monumental difficulty of her objective was driven home as soon as she tried to sit up. Upon her attempt, Hermione was immediately overcome with another wave of dizziness, compounded by intensified pounding in her head. She needed to think about this strategically. Perhaps, she reasoned, the best thing to do would be to roll over onto her stomach, and then push herself up. Her arms, at least, didn't seem to be injured. She might as well try to put them to use. It certainly didn't hurt to try a new approach.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, Hermione rolled over onto her chest. The action led to an excruciating new advent of pain, and she gave a sharp cry as what felt like a million little shards glass were further ground into her chest. As her shock receded, and she lay there panting and labored on the ground, it gradually became clear to Hermione that her initial assessment of this new pain was more than just an apt metaphor. There were actual shards of glass digging into her chest. Shards of glass from her shattered time turner, which she could now clearly remember having been wearing when she was talking to Professor Trelawney, but whose critical existence she had forgotten until this moment. It must have broken when…whatever happened to her happened. She had been rushing down the east seventh floor stairs, Hermione remembered, fuming from her encounter with Trelawney, and desperate to get away from the woman as quickly as possible. Could she have fallen off the stairs, she wondered? But then how on earth did she get outside?

Tears leaking from eyes which were squeezed tightly shut, either against the pain or as a device with which to attempt to block out her new reality, Hermione was forced to confront the horrifying possibility that she had traveled through time. In fact, she realized with a ragged sob, it was the only explanation that even remotely made sense. How else could she have gone from inside to outside? And she was _sure_ that she had been inside. Her time turner was broken. She could feel the remnants of it sticking in her chest; sharp pieces of glass, along with a profoundly painful itchiness which she thought must be the sands of time mixing with, and irritating, the open wound caused by the glass.

If she had traveled through time, which she was now almost certain that she had, Hermione's circumstances were even direr than she had previously assessed.

She was almost certain though, that she was at Hogwarts. That little cottage she could just see in the distance looked exactly as she had known Hagrid's to. And the pumpkins suggested it was still some time around late summer or autumn. Was it possible she had only traveled a few hours back in time? Could she hope for that? If she _had_ fallen from the seventh floor staircase, how many times would her body flip in the air? Drawing in a rattling breath, Hermione was reminded once again of the great amount of pain with which her body was currently racked. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, now was not the moment to ponder logistical questions, however important they may be in the greater scheme of things. She needed to get to Hagrid's, and damn all the rules Professor McGonagall had drilled into her about not allowing herself to be seen in the past. She needed to get help.

Bracing her arms on the ground, Hermione managed to push herself up to a kneeling position. It was a painfully belabored effort, but an ultimately successful one. Breathing harshly, she then attempted to stand, but overwhelmed with dizziness, the gravely injured girl found herself falling back down to her knees. The impact of the fall reverberated through her body in a way that made her head rattle. Standing seemed an insurmountable feat, and in the end, Hermione decided that her best option would be to crawl. And so she began the painful process of forcing her broken body in the direction of what she thought to be Hagrid's hut.

One of her ankles seemed to be twisted to the point of uselessness, and as a consequence, Hermione found herself relying heavily on her uninjured arms; dragging herself across the grounds it what was almost a bastardized approximation of an army crawl. Finally, after what seemed an interminably long journey, Hermione collapsed triumphantly on the threshold of the Gamekeeper's cottage. Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she proceeded to pound as forcibly as she could on the door of the hut, crying for help as she did so.

* * *

The Hogwarts Gamekeeper had just been relaxing into a nice cuppa by the fire, when he was roused from his relaxation by a furious banging on his cottage door. The sudden onslaught provoked a shout of alarm from the (half) giant of a man, and he was so startled that he dropped his teacup.

"Hold yer hippogriffs, I'm comin', I'm comin'," Hagrid cried, hastily throwing down a towel to try and stem the flow of hot tea now seeping across his floorboards.

Still rather preoccupied with his upended cuppa as he hauled open the door, all thoughts of spilt earl grey were immediately vanished from his mind when he caught sight of the horrifying spectacle which awaited him on the other side of his door. A girl, a young girl, lay collapsed on his doorstep in a crumpled, bloody heap.

The poor creature must have heard him open the door, because before he could gather himself or think what to do, she looked up at him, seemingly with great effort. Her action revealed a deathly pale face, and a head which looked as though it had been bludgeoned fiercely on one side by the whomping willow. The Gamekeeper's eyes widened in fear and dismay as he began to assess the full range of the lass's injuries; that nasty, fearful looking head wound being just the start of them.

"Hagrid," choked the girl, shocking the man from his appraisal. He hadn't expected her to speak; and indeed, it seemed she struggled to, her voice a jagged rasp of a whisper. It did not occur to Hagrid in that moment to wonder how the strange, terribly injured girl knew his name.

"What year is it?" she demanded, her eyes wild and frantic, her voice rough.

Hagrid's large brow furrowed in confusion at the odd question. Did the lass have a concussion of some sort? With the looks of that head wound, he wouldn't be surprised if she did

"1973, o' course," he supplied. "Lass, how hard did yeh hit yer head now?"

His answer seemed to distress the girl for some reason, and she gave a great, pitiful moan, similar to that of a creature looking to be put out of its' misery. After throwing Hagrid one wrenchingly, agonized look, the girl's eyes rolled up in the back of her head and she passed clean out.

Not knowing what to make of this sudden flight of consciousness, other than to surmise that the shock and severity of the girl's injuries had finally caught up with her, Hagrid gathered up her limp body in his large, capable arms and proceeded to carry her up to the Castle; delivering her into the hands of those who could provide her with the medical and magical help she so desperately needed.

* * *

Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman. She had toiled in the bloody and baffling wards of St. Mungo's Hospital for years before eventually deciding to lend her considerably in demand services, and particular brand of unflappability, to Hogwarts. And for those who thought the school was a soft option, they clearly underestimated the destructive capability of a large group of adolescents in a confined space. Adolescents who were not only just coming into and developing the full range of their magical powers, but who were also inundated with hormones. Not to mention the faction of them who gleefully engaged in a highly dangerous and violent sport; namely quidditch, the bane of her existence. She was far more than a simple distributor of pepper up potions to hoards of students exhausted by exams. The formidable Hospital Matron dealt with injuries varied and gruesome day in and day out at the castle, some of them life threatening. All this to say that Poppy Pomfrey was not an easily shocked woman.

And her reputation for stoicism held true that late August morning. When she turned away from reorganizing her medicinal potions cupboard to find the Hogwarts Gamekeeper stood in her doorway, holding the bleeding body of an unconscious child, she reacted with perfectly calm and precise efficiency. After, that is, she let out a small scream and dropped the bottle of skelegrow she had been holding. It skittered jarringly across the floor, ending up in far corner of the ward under one of the many beds, where it would lay forgotten for months, the only evidence of Poppy Pomfrey having momentarily been startled. In her defense, the sight of such a large man cradling such a small and frail looking body would be enough to give anyone a fright. To her credit, the Hospital Matron recovered almost immediately, instructing Hagrid to gently lay the child down on a bed and then quickly fetch her a blood replenishing potion from the cupboard she had just abandoned.

Some twenty minutes later, blood spattered and a little worse for wear, Madam Pomfrey let out a tired but satisfied sigh, tucking a sweaty tendril of hair behind her ear. With the help of Hagrid, she had managed to stabilize the girl, leaving the child in a magically induced sleep while her body recovered. It was only then, in the wake of the frantic medical maneuvers she had performed in order to save the girls life, that it occurred to Madam Pomfrey that she had better send Hagrid off for the Headmaster. Dumbledore would no doubt have questions as to the girl's sudden and strange appearance at Hogwarts, not to mention how she had obtained such severe, life threatening injuries.

Poppy had some questions herself, now that she wasn't immediately consumed with stabilizing the girl. The child was wearing what looked to be a Gryffindor House tie, but she wasn't a student as far as Madame Pomfrey recognized. She may not have treated all of them, but Hogwarts's was a fairly small school, and Poppy was confident in her ability to recognize most of the students past the second half of their first year. This girl, despite her petite stature, looked to be at least a second or third year. So why didn't Poppy know her, if indeed she was a Hogwarts student? And why was she here at the castle, in her school uniform, a fortnight before term was even set to begin? It didn't seem as though any of the girl's injuries were the result of any type of magic, dark or otherwise; besides, that is, the peculiar wound on her chest. It more seemed to Poppy that she had had a particularly bad fall from a great height. But from where had she fallen, and how had she come to end up at Hogwarts? Those were the questions that gave Madam Pomfrey particular pause. The circumstances of the whole matter were deeply unsettling to the mediwitch. Frankly, she didn't know what to make of any of it. The Headmaster, hopefully, would have greater insight, although whether or not he would choose to share such insight with her was anyone's guess. The man could be infuriatingly opaque when it suited him, and it usually seemed to.

As though she had summoned him with her thoughts, the Headmaster himself glided into the Hospital Wing at just that moment, Dumbledore's presence announced with a delicate swishing of his midnight blue robes and a soft throat clearing. Hagrid, who judging by his huffing, had run at full tilt in order to retrieve the Headmaster, asserted his own reappearance in a considerably less delicate way, shuffling noisily into the room and proceeding to peer anxiously at the still unconscious girl.

"Poppy, what is the situation?" Dumbledore inquired, surveying her young patient with an expression of great concern.

Madam Pomfrey sucked in a deep breath. "Well, Headmaster, the child is stable. I'm keeping her in a magically induced sleep for the time being in order to let her body heal. She suffered a grievous head wound, and she lost quite a bit of blood. I've replenished all I can, but she's still quite weak. From what Hagrid told me, and given the severity of her head injury, it is likely she suffered a concussion as well. I did my best to reduce any swelling on her brain. Her right ankle was also badly mangled, but I fixed that up very quickly. Bones are easier to mend than brains."

Madam Pomfrey paused before relaying the last of the child's major injuries, for it had been the most perplexing to her. "Additionally, Headmaster, there was a deep wound on her chest. I believe she was wearing a necklace of some sort, made of glass. It shattered, presumably when she fell, and pieces of glass became deeply embedded in her chest. Dirt, or possibly sand of some sort, somehow made its way under her sweater to contaminate the wound. I vanished the contaminants and mended the cut to the best of my ability, but it's proven particularly stubborn to even my most advanced healing spells. I suspect the necklace may have been magical in nature, to create such a wound. The girl will undoubtedly bare a scar. For the rest of her life, I'd wager."

Dumbledore's face was inscrutable. "Indeed, magical wounds can create very lasting scars," he observed. "I bare a few myself."

He strode toward the bed, coming to a stop beside its head and reaching out to allow one slender hand to hover over the chest of the motionless girl who was its occupant. "May I?" he inquired, turning once more to Madam Pomfrey.

"Of course, Headmaster," she demurred, gesturing for Dumbledore to proceed.

Taking a seat on a stool beside the bed, Dumbledore reached out, delicately moving aside the neck of the girl's gray sweater in order to reveal what was beneath. His gaze lingered briefly on her Gryffindor tie, before coming to rest with deep intention on the unusual wound which he had just uncovered. A scattering of long, thin cuts stood out starkly against the paleness of the girl's chest, their harsh, red lines forming what almost looked like a star burst.

"That is a most unusual scar," Dumbledore mused softly. "I suspect you are right, Madam Pomfrey, in thinking that she will have that for life. It's quite vivid, and I'd be very surprised if it faded." He eyed the scar for a bit longer, and then moved the girl's sweater back into place; covering her wound once more. He continued to gaze contemplatively at the unconscious child for a while longer, eventually reaching out to finger the delicate gold chain which still encircled her neck.

"This, I presume, is the remnants of the necklace you believe she was wearing, Poppy?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

Dumbledore examined the chain for a few moments longer, sliding its delicate links between his long, thin fingers, before letting it come to rest once more against the girl's chest. Then, sweeping his penetrating gaze over the mysterious figure of the girl one final time, he pushed back his stool and stood.

"A most unusual situation," he declared, straightening his robes. "In any case, I thank you for your efforts Poppy, and you as well, Hagrid," he nodded in acknowledgment towards the Gamekeeper. "It is due to the quick action of the pair of you that this child's life was saved. As ever, you prove yourselves invaluable assets to this castle, and I thank you."

Hagrid beamed with pride, seeming to almost brim over with emotion, while Madam Pomfrey simply nodded in solemn acknowledgment.

"Please inform me when the child wakes, Poppy," Dumbledore requested, "And let me know when she is sufficiently recovered enough that I may talk to her. There is a great deal we will have to discuss, I should think. Hagrid, I am sure, would like to be kept abreast of her recovery as well."

"I would, indeed, Headmaster; Madam Pomfrey," the Gamekeeper said quickly. "I'd like to know the lass is alright."

"I'll keep both of you informed," the mediwitch assured them.

"Very well then," Dumbledore said briskly. "Hagrid and I will be on our way, Poppy, leaving the child in your sublime care to rest and recover."

The Hospital Matron nodded, turning to face her patient once more as the two men exited the Hospital Wing. The girl slumbered on in her magically induced sleep. She was almost eerily still, and this, coupled with her pallor, would have been quite alarming, if not for the slight rise and fall of her chest which indicated that she lived. What had happened to the child, and how she had come to be here at Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey did not know. Dumbledore would ferret it out, if anyone could.

Regardless of the mysterious and troubling circumstances of her arrival, the girl was here now, and she would recover fully; of that Madam Pomfrey was sure. The Hospital Matron should have been feeling proud and satisfied with the work she had done that day in bringing the girl back from the brink; reveling in the due accolades which she had received from the Headmaster in recognition of her skills. But something was nagging at her, a persistent distraction that the mediwitch could not dispel from the back of her mind, try as she might. Despite herself, Madam Pomfrey just could not be rid of the unshakable sense that the child was out of place here; that somehow, in some vital but indiscoverable way, she did not quite belong.


	3. Choking on New Realities

Chapter 3: Choking on New Realities

Hermione was in the midst of a rather unsettling dream. Professor Trelawney had shoved her off one of Hogwarts' many changing staircases, and she had fallen face down into an endlessly deep pit of broken glass. Abruptly, the glass vanished, and she was falling again, only to be swallowed up by a rising tide of sand. She was drowning; choking on blood, glass and sand. And then Hagrid was there, lifting her up from the rubble and carrying her, but to where she didn't know. Her eyes had been cut by the glass, and then blinded by the sand. They were burning and she couldn't see. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't, for her mouth was still overflowing with blood, glass and sand. Hermione was surrounded by darkness and utterly lost. Gradually though, the vision behind her eyes was lightening, and there was a sudden, sharp, acerbic scent in the air which was growing overwhelmingly stronger.

"I need you to drink this," someone was saying, as Hermione struggled to open heavy eyes. "I know you'll be feeling quite groggy at the moment, child, but I need you to drink this."

Blinking against the bright, mid-morning light, Hermione found herself confronted with a vial of potent smelling tonic which had been shoved underneath her nose. The smell of the brew was quite strong, and it seemed to have a reviving effect on Hermione; able to tear her from her strange nightmare and usher her into wakefulness. Rather than being suffocated by a combination of glass, blood and sand, Hermione now found herself lying in a hospital bed. Madam Pomfrey loomed above her, badgering Hermione, however kindly, to drink one of her foul smelling potions.

Perhaps it was the remnants of her disturbing dream, but something about Madam Pomfrey seemed not quite right to the newly awoken teen. The Hospital Matron's face, framed by the light which was streaming in from the expansive windows of the Hospital Wing, looked peculiarly young to Hermione. This was an altered version of the Madam Pomfrey she was used to; unmistakably Madam Pomfrey, but unmistakably different. As she squinted into the unlined face of the relatively young looking woman above her, Hermione was overwhelmed by a sudden and violent rush of recent memories. She _had_ been on the stairs with Trelawney, and she _had_ fallen; that wasn't just a dream. She had fallen off the seventh floor staircase only to find herself outside in 1973 with a slew of grievous injuries and a shattered time turner. Hermione had awoken from an unsettling dream to find herself in an unsettling reality.

The young witch let out a long, low groan, sinking as deeply as she could into the stiff hospital pillows.

"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore, "she said hoarsely.

Madam Pomfrey arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. "You need to drink this, before you do anything."

Hermione suppressed an irritated sigh. "Very well," she said, taking the proffered potion and downing it in one gulp. The liquid burned her throat fiercely, and she struggled not to sputter too much and spit any of it out. The vile brew tasted almost as bad as polyjuice! She had no doubt, though, that acquiescing to Madam Pomfrey's requests would facilitate quicker access to the Headmaster, and Hermione was desperate to see him.

"Thank you," Madam Pomfrey said when Hermione had finished coughing, snatching the potion bottle from her hand and promptly replacing it with another one. Alarmingly, this one was an unnaturally vivid shade of purple and seemed to be steaming. "Drink this please," chirped the young Madam Pomfrey, with a smile that Hermione could not help but judge as just slightly sadistic.

After choking down three more nasty concoctions, her throat thoroughly on fire by the end of this ordeal, it finally seemed that Madam Pomfrey was done torturing her. For the moment at least.

"Now," the Hospital Matron said, clearing away the empty potions bottles. "I shall, of course, inform the Headmaster that you are awake, and I am sure that he will wish to speak with you in due time, Miss…" Madam Pomfrey trailed off here, in a clear attempt to illicit a name from her mysterious patient. Hermione chose to remain stubbornly mute.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Very well, mysterious girl. I trust you shall be more forthcoming with the Headmaster, given your eagerness to speak with him."

Hermione nodded once.

"As you may or may not remember, you were brought here by Hagrid, the Hogwarts's Gamekeeper. You had a severe head wound, a broken ankle, and a deep wound in your chest, as well as a series of minor abrasions covering your body. I replenished your blood supply, and healed the rest of your injuries fully, although a scar remains on your chest. That wound was magical in origin, and I suspect you will have that scar for life."

Instinctually, Hermione drew a hand to her chest, covering it protectively. She was curious as to what this scar looked like, but she did not want to peek at it in front of Madam Pomfrey. She noticed she was still wearing her school tie and sweater, although any tears the garment had suffered had been mended, and all blood removed from it.

"I do not know the origin of your injuries, and I suspect that if you do, you will not share such information with me," Madam Pomfrey continued.

Hermione nodded once again. She certainly could not impugn the perceptiveness of the mediwitch, and frankly, that's what worried her. She could see the way that Madam Pomfrey's eyes stopped repeatedly on her Gryffindor tie.

"If you will not tell me anything else," Madam Pomfrey said, somewhat ruefully. "I suggest that you rest while you wait for the Headmaster." And with that, she turned as though to leave.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione ventured, stopping her retreat. "How long have I been here? In the Hospital Wing, I mean?"

"Five days," supplied the Hospital Matron. "I've kept you in a magically unconscious state until now so that your body could recover more easily. I deemed you healthy enough to bring you out of it this morning, and you awakened naturally shortly thereafter."

"I see," Hermione said quietly. "And what is today's date then?

"August 22nd, 1973."

Hermione absorbed this information numbly.

"Now," Madam Pomfrey was saying, "I will go inform the Headmaster that you are awake. I suspect he is as eager to talk to you as you are to him, young lady. In the meantime, try to get some rest."

* * *

Despite Madam Pomfrey's directive that she, 'get some rest', Hermione found that she was too anxious to even attempt such a thing. She reasoned that she had had enough rest in the last five days, magically induced though it may have been. Instead, Hermione took the opportunity of Madam Pomfrey's absence to tug aside her sweater and peek at her new scar the moment she was left alone. The young witch frowned at the series of oxblood red lines which now crisscrossed her chest in a small, almost star like configuration; demarcating the place where her time turner had broken and embedded itself in her chest. Cuts from broken glass; it should have been a superficial wound, one that Madam Pomfrey would easily be able to heal. But she hadn't been able to heal it, and if the Hospital Matron was right, Hermione's chest would be marred with this small, chaotic looking star burst for the rest of her life. It seemed the time turner had left a lasting mark on her; physically as well as temporally.

Hermione was not a girl with many scars. Up until she had come to Hogwarts, she'd led a relatively sheltered life with her dentist parents in a quiet suburb. She was hardly the type of child to be mucking about outdoors too much, preferring to stay inside and read. And she'd never been one for sports. The opportunity for injury simply hadn't presented itself much in her childhood, the odd incidents that were inevitable when you were a budding witch notwithstanding.

Reaching down, Hermione ran her fingers curiously over the varied, intersecting lines of the vivid scar she now bore. The lines weren't raised, she found, and she could only see them, not feel them. Her skin was marked, but still smooth. The scar sat towards the top of the valley between her breasts, just where she had worn her time turner. Granted, this was not as highly visible a place as where Harry's scar was, but it would still be quite on display if she wore anything relatively low cut. Not to mention it would surely draw undue attention to her breasts, which had spent the last couple of years gradually expanding, necessitating many tedious bra shopping trips with her mother in order to accommodate their growth. At the recollection of these memories, Hermione blanched. Who was going to take her bra shopping now, trapped as she was in 1973? Certainly not her mother.

She was broken from these melancholy thoughts by the arrival of Professor Dumbledore, and the reappearance of Madam Pomfrey. Hermione raised her head to take in the Headmaster, noting that he looked much the same as the Dumbledore from her own time, although his beard was a little shorter, and his face a little less lined. His nose was as comfortingly crooked as ever though, and the spectacles which were perched atop it were not distinguishable in any noticeable way from the ones he had worn in the 1990's. In further confirmation that his fashion sense had not changed much at all in twenty years, he was wearing a pair of flamboyant fuchsia robes adorned with metallic shooting stars.

"Hello, my dear," Dumbledore greeted her, eyes warm, but assessing. "I am glad to say you appear a great deal better than you did when I last saw you. No doubt this is due to the fine efforts of Madam Pomfrey," he indicated the Hospital Matron with a sweep of his hand. "She has just informed me she has started you on a harrowing potions regiment, and while surely they are all most foul," he shot Hermione a roguish wink, "I trust they will only further aid in your recovery."

"Now," he continued, "Down to business. I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witch Craft and Wizardry, which I gather from Madam Pomfrey you already know, but I see that as no reason not to formally introduce myself."

He reached forward for Hermione's hand, and she took it tentatively, expecting a handshake. Instead, Dumbledore grasped her hand warmly with both of his, giving it a squeeze in an attempt to reassure the skittish witch.

"Now that you know my name," he said. "I hope that you would do me the great favor of divulging yours to me in turn, my child. For it seems you know something about me, while I know very little about you."

Hermione opened her mouth. "I -," she started, and then promptly cut herself off, shooting a worried look at Madam Pomfrey. "I would like to do that very much, Headmaster," she finished, returning her gaze to Dumbledore and looking at him intently.

"Ahh," Dumbledore said perceptively, giving her hand a squeeze once more. "Well then, if you are feeling well enough, my child, I would suggest that you accompany me up to my office so that we may speak in privacy. That is, if Madam Pomfrey will allow it."

"I'll allow it," the mediwitch said wryly. "But please try not to exhaust the child with your questioning, Albus, and keep her no longer than is absolutely necessary."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore agreed quickly, waving away the Hospital Matron's concerns. "Then," he said, turning his twinkling eyes back on Hermione, "When you are ready, my dear, I shall accompany you to my office."

Taking a breath, Hermione cast aside the blanket which had been covering her. Scooting to the edge of the hospital bed, she slid from it gingerly, coming to stand on somewhat shaky legs. Once more, Dumbledore extended his hand to her, and she reached for it gratefully, feeling slightly unsteady on her feet after five days spent unconscious and confined to a bed.

"This is where we leave you, Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said, smiling at the Hospital Matron while gently guiding Hermione in the direction of the Hospital Wing doors.

"Just as long as you return her in one piece, Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey instructed, arching an eyebrow at Dumbledore in warning.

"You have my word, Poppy," the Headmaster assured her, bowing his head solemnly. Then, still gripping Hermione's hand, he proceeded to whisk the young witch from the Hospital Wing and out into the corridor, leading her onward to his office.

* * *

As they traversed the halls of the castle, making their way to the third floor in companionable silence, Hermione marveled at how unchanged everything seemed from her own time. The same portraits she recognized from the 1990's peered curiously down on the pair from their perches, whispering amongst themselves as Hermione and Dumbledore passed by. All the doors and staircases were right where she expected them to be, and even the suits of armor seemed to be in the same places she remembered. It felt like the same Hogwarts she had occupied in her own time; the unique and unmistakable aura which the castle had always seemed to her to possess was very much present. The only thing missing was her fellow students, and Hermione couldn't deny that Hogwarts felt oddly hollow without them; less potently magical somehow, although of course centuries of magic were imbued into the castle's very walls. She didn't have long to dwell on such things though, because before she knew it, they had come to a stop in front of an extremely ugly stone gargoyle. Just as in her own time, the unfortunate looking statue guarded the entrance to the Headmaster's office, demanding a password as the price of admittance.

"Ginger newt," Dumbledore supplied cheerfully, and the statue obliging moved aside, revealing a stone staircase hidden behind the wall.

Dumbledore drew Hermione onto the bottom most stair, and to her shock, the stairs began to move on their own, propelling her and Dumbledore upwards automatically. The ascending spiral staircase behaved almost like a muggle escalator, eliminating any worry Hermione had had about climbing such a steep set of her stairs on her still weak legs. Eventually, the stairs brought them to a stop in front of a large, wooden door. Dumbledore reached for the handle, opening the entrance to his office and ushering Hermione in ahead of him.

Hermione had never actually been in Dumbledore's office in her own time. That was not such an unusual thing, as it was quite rare for current Hogwarts students to be admitted. Unless, of course, they were Harry, with his propensity for saving the school and narrowly escaping death every year. She had no idea what the office had (or rather, would) look like in the 1990's, but in its current 1970's iteration it was quite fascinating. Various mysterious, magical instruments were scattered about the room, including some that were emitting smoke. Hermione caught sight of the sorting hat on one of the shelves which ringed the circular office tower, nestled in next to a stone dish which looked as though it was filled with an opaque fog. She couldn't help but feel that the hat, venerable magical object though it was, looked a bit innocuous amongst the array of impressive and excessively shiny treasures which filled Dumbledore's office.

The available wall space in the room was almost completely taken up by portraits of previous headmasters, most of whom appeared to be sleeping at the moment, although Hermione noticed one black haired witch sipping a glass of red wine. Unquestionably, what dominated the space of the office was Dumbledore's massive claw foot desk, behind which there was an equally massive bookshelf stuffed to the brim with tomes both ancient looking and modern. Hermione would have absolutely loved to have been able to dive into it, though it appeared that many of the books it shelved were in other languages, or contained runes that were beyond her current capabilities. She'd barely even had a chance to begin her study of ancient runes, after all. It had scarcely been three weeks into her third year term when she had vanished from the 1990's. Although the bookshelf was undoubtedly impressive, the most stunning thing in the room would have to have been the brilliantly beautiful bird which sat perched on a stand atop Dumbledore's desk. The creature was truly magnificent; his yellow, red and orange feathers gleaming with unparalleled sheen and blending seamlessly into a gorgeous, fiery plume.

"You must be Fawkes," Hermione whispered, staring in awe at the phoenix.

"You know, Fawkes?" Dumbledore inquired, seeming surprised but delighted by this revelation.

"I've never met him, Sir, but I've heard about him. He's beautiful."

"Yes, I rather think so," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, and Fawkes seemed to puff out his chest slightly in pride. "At least at the moment. Fortunately, you've caught him at the peak of his cycle; he looks a great sight worse on a burning day, but such is the order of things."

"Yes, Sir, I suppose," Hermione said softly.

Over the course of their conversation about Fawkes, Dumbledore had made his way behind his desk to take a seat in the high backed, but cozy looking chair which awaited him there, gesturing for Hermione to do the same in the considerably less ostentatious one which sat in front of his desk. The young witch did so, self-consciously straightening her skirt, and biting her lip nervously.

Professor Dumbledore leveled her with a serious look. "I gather, my dear, that you have a great deal you wish to tell me; I would encourage you to start with your name."

Hermione took a deep breath. "My name is Hermione Granger, Sir."

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said. "I don't mean to be uncouth, but I will get straight to the point. Are you able to shed any light on how you received such grievous injuries, or how you came to be with us here at Hogwarts?"

Hermione drew a hand to her chest, pressing it tightly against the place where, hidden beneath her sweater, she now bore an unusual, star shaped scar.

"I fear you may find my tale quite unbelievable, Sir," Hermione whispered, still studying the pleats in her skirt.

"I assure you, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said seriously, "that I will listen to what you say with the utmost earnestness and sincerity."

Hermione looked up, meeting the Headmaster's eyes for the first time since entering his office. She took a deep breath.

"My name is Hermione Granger, Sir, and I am, I _was_ ," she corrected hastily, "in the beginning of my third year term at Hogwarts. I had signed on to take an unusual amount of classes, and Professor McGonagall entrusted me with a time turner so that I would be able to accommodate my schedule," Professor Dumbledore said nothing, but his bushy, white eyebrows had risen so high that they had vanished beneath the brim of his pointed hat.

"I'd been successfully using it in order to get to my classes for a few weeks," Hermione continued, "when I believe that I," she hesitated, her voice stuttering. "I believe that I fell off one of the staircases. That's the last thing I remember Sir," the displaced witch explained, her eyes brimming with tears and her voice beginning to choke.

"When I woke up, I was outside, and I realized that my time turner was broken. I wasn't sure how far back in time I had possibly traveled. Time turners are only supposed to be able to transport you back a few hours at most, but I didn't know where I was, or how I had gotten outside. When I was able to get to Hagrid's, and he told me that I was in 1973, I think that I-I passed out from the shock of it all. The next time I awoke I was in the hospital wing, and it was still 1973. It _is_ still 1973," she finished despondently.

Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments following the conclusion of Hermione's tale, appearing to need time some to process the girl's words.

"I hope you do not consider this a terribly rude question, Miss Granger," he said finally, "but may I inquire as to your blood status?"

"I'm muggleborn, Sir," Hermione blurted out, perplexed that that this seemingly random question was Dumbledore's first reaction to her story.

"Well, I daresay that makes things considerably less complicated, my dear," the Headmaster pronounced, bestowing a rueful smile on the young witch.

"Er, excuse me, Sir, but how is that, exactly?" Hermione asked, feeling exceedingly puzzled as to how anything regarding her situation could possibly be perceived as less than complicated.

"No messy family history to go along with your name," Dumbledore explained pragmatically. "If you had, for instance, been from an old pure blood family, I do feel that it may have been necessary, however unfortunately so, to falsify your name and blood status while you remained here in this time. The fact that you are a muggle born, my child, infers upon you a certain degree of beneficial anonymity."

"I suppose it does," Hermione said slowly, for she had hardly had time to give thought to such things. Dumbledore, it seemed, was already leagues ahead of her. "You believe me then, Professor?"

"Oh yes, child," Dumbledore said, peering seriously at her from under his glinting, half-moon spectacles. "I have no reason not to. Your explanation explains both your unexpected presence here, and that unusual scar on your chest," he nodded in the direction of her sweater. "Further, you display familiarity with both myself and Madam Pomfrey, as well as the layout of the castle; all of which would be in line with the knowledge of a Hogwarts student, and yet we do not recognize you. It seems that despite the fact that you are unknown to us, we are known to you. Your explanation serves to explain all of these unusual circumstances most satisfactorily, and I can think of no reason why you would relate to me such a woeful and outlandish tale other than the fact that it must be true. What we must determine now, is where we go from here."

"I'd like to home, Sir," Hermione said plaintively. She was gratified that Dumbledore had accepted her admittedly unbelievable story so readily, but his belief hardly did much to alleviate the harsh reality of her current situation.

"I am sure that you would, my dear child," the Headmaster said soberly. "Unfortunately, I fear that that will not possible, at least not immediately, and mayhap not at all." He shook his head sadly. "Infinite though my wisdom is rumored to be, this situation is entirely novel to me. Time turners, until now, and seemingly in the future as well, if your own understanding is correct, have been thought to be capable only of transporting their users a few hours backward in time. Your presence here upsets that proposition, proving that, clearly, there are certain circumstances under which a time turner can transport a user much further back in time. How you came to embody or activate such unique circumstances I cannot fathom at this moment, though I shall try my best to figure it out. In the meantime, Miss Granger, I think it is imperative that we develop a credible backstory for you to have at your disposal for however long you remain here in this time."

"That does seem wise," Hermione agreed haltingly, feeling somewhat shell-shocked in the aftermath of the Headmaster's monologue. "What would you suggest, Sir?"

"I do not know your personal familial history, Miss Granger," Dumbledore began slowly, "other than the fact that you are muggleborn, which you have so graciously chosen to share with me. I will not ask you to divulge more to me at this time, understanding that it may be painful for you, and wishing to respect your privacy as much as I can. I will say that in this matter I believe the wisest course of action is to adhere as closely as possible to the reality of your personal history as we can without reveling your true origins. I would suggest that, whenever possible, you do not alter the details and major events of your childhood; for instance, your home town. Optimally, you will retain the personal substance of your history, while leaving out the cultural context surrounding it."

Hermione nodded, absorbing the Headmaster's instruction on tenterhooks, and trying desperately not to become overwhelmed. She found that it helped to try and frame all of this in terms of an academic problem; a challenging and yet fascinating quandary, one that she could pretend she was distant from. Unfortunately, whatever illusion of academic distance she had managed to tentatively erect was about to be shaken considerably by the Headmaster's next words.

"There is one alteration which I am afraid remains unavoidable though," he intoned soberly. "I am so sorry, my child, but we will have to maintain that the entirety of your family is dead."

Although she had known in the back of her mind that such a directive was coming; that such a directive was inevitable, Hermione found herself recoiling from Dumbledore at the pain his blunt statement brought to the surface. She nodded tearfully, unable to respond verbally at the moment, but eager to move on. Hermione forced herself to shove back her emotions, determined that she would process her pain later, in private, not here in front of the Headmaster, sitting in an uncomfortable, stiff backed chair.

"What about my magical schooling?" she inquired softly, her eyes still slightly tearful despite her best efforts. "I completed two years at Hogwarts, but obviously there is no record or memory of that in this time," she pointed out practically.

"Indeed," Dumbledore observed with a slight smile, seemingly impressed that the young witch had spotted the potential problem. "I think it is best that we say you completed the beginning of your magical education at a small, alternative institution. There are a number of them around the United Kingdom, none as prestigious as Hogwarts, but enrollment can be justified by the reasoning that your parents wanted to keep you closer to home. Records at such places are easy enough to falsify, should anyone choose to delve into your story. We will simply select the school closest to where you grew up, and doctor the records accordingly. The reason for your transfer to Hogwarts can naturally be explained by the death of your family," he finished, letting the heavy silence which followed his statements linger in the room briefly, out of deference to Hermione's understandable emotion.

"My transfer to Hogwarts, Sir?" Hermione asked eventually, once she had fully processed all of the Headmaster's words. "You would have me stay here?" she asked, startled. "At Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled familiarly from within a face that was just not _quite_ as aged as she was used to.

"Naturally, my dear child," he said. "Where else? After all, we mustn't allow your education to stall or suffer simply because you have been hurled through time."

"Of course, Sir," Hermione agreed faintly, distantly horrified at the prospect of being forced to suspend her studies. She'd scarcely yet given thought to where she would stay in this time, much less how she would continue her magical education. She certainly hadn't expected that Dumbledore would allow her to remain at Hogwarts, having disregarded such an option right away as being far too dangerous.

"I'll be seen!" Hermione protested. With everything she had been told about time travel by Professor McGonagall, she knew that it was absolutely paramount that she not be seen by anyone in the past who might know her in the future. She could irrevocably damage the course of history, and that was no small thing.

Dumbledore's gaze was level. "My dear, you have already been seen. By me, by Madam Pomfrey, and by my very concerned Gamekeeper. All of whom, if I am not mistaken in your reactions, which I suspect that I am not, you are familiar with from your own time."

Hermione nodded. "So it's too late," she whispered, feeling a sense of despair beginning to overcome her.

"Don't lose hope just yet, child." Dumbledore counseled. "Time is a very mysterious force, and wizards, witches and muggles alike have been trying to make sense of it for millennia without very much headway at all. We should not be so arrogant as to assume that we know even a fraction of its secrets."

"Will I ever be able to get back, Sir?" Hermione asked, looking up at the Headmaster, her eyes shining with fear and a renewed batch of unshed tears. She found that her continued determination to push back her emotions was beginning to erode, despite her best efforts. The situation was simply too overwhelming for the thirteen year old witch.

"I do not know, my dear, if you will ever be able to return to your own time," Dumbledore said gravely. "I can assure you that I will do my best to investigate this occurrence and resolve it to the best of my ability if I am able. But that is all I can promise. In the meantime, as I said, you must stay here at Hogwarts," he repeated this assertion once more, as though it was the only feasible option.

Hermione nodded, gulping back her tears, which Dumbledore pointedly did not comment on, suddenly very interested in selecting a lemon drop for himself.

"Now," he said, unsticking two of the muggle candies and popping one of them into his mouth, proffering the other to Hermione, who shook her head in refusal of the sweet.

"I see from your attire that you are a member of Gryffindor House," Dumbledore observed, blue eyes glinting off Hermione's red and gold striped tie, and lingering briefly on the Gryffindor House Crest that adorned her sweater. "May I assume that you would like to rejoin Gryffindor for the duration of your stay here at Hogwarts in this time? Of course, if you would prefer, you can be re-sorted."

Hermione had opened her mouth to vehemently assert that of course she wished to remain in Gryffindor House, when she stopped suddenly. _Did_ she want to be a Gryffindor in this time?

Rather than Harry, Ron and the rest of her comfortingly familiar housemates, the Gryffindor of 1973 would be populated with ghosts. Painful ones. Could she handle the young versions of Harry's parents being in constant proximity, knowing they'd be dead in just ten years' time? How would she face them? How would she face Harry if she ever got back to him? And Sirius Black had been a Gryffindor as well, Hermione recalled with horror, contrary to Ron's misguided notion that all bad wizards came out of Slytherin. How would she cope with being around _him_ of all people? Then there was Peter Pettigrew, who Black would later murder in such a ghastly manner, along with twelve muggles. Gryffindors in this time, all of them.

Hermione swallowed. Would she even be able to exist among them all without suffering a mental breakdown of some sort? Would she be running off to Madam Pomfrey for a calming draught every day? Maybe she'd be better off among an anonymous set of Ravenclaws, Hermione mused. But even the thought sat wrong with the young witch. She was a Gryffindor, and the house had always been her home at Hogwarts. She was going to be so alone here, and, perhaps selfishly, she wasn't sure if she wanted to give up the comfort and familiarity of Gryffindor tower, even if it meant dealing with the painful realities that dwelled within its walls right now.

Truthfully she couldn't imagine being anything else, even a Ravenclaw, a house which she had great respect for, and which Ron often joked she should have been in anyway. But she wasn't a Ravenclaw, Hermione thought stubbornly, she just wasn't. The witch was a Gryffindor through and through. She may have had a penchant for obsessive studying (Harry and Ron's words), but that didn't make her any less of a lion. And perhaps it was her Gryffindor nature which gave Hermione the bravery to make the choice to remain in her original house. To face the ghosts that awaited her there in this time head on, rather than fruitlessly attempting to hide away from them.

"I don't need to be re-sorted," Hermione said decisively, with a surprising amount of ferocity for a thirteen year old witch. "I'm a Gryffindor."

Dumbledore smiled at her declaration, having seen the turmoil on the young girls face as she considered the question of her house. Given that she had chosen to make a difficult decision head on, rather than cast off the responsibility of it on either himself or the Sorting Hat, the wizened wizard felt that she had made the right choice for herself. Gryffindor House was definitely the place for Hermione Granger, in 1993 and in 1973 as well.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Gryffindor it will be. This allows us to avoid the messy spectacle of a public re-sorting anyway, most convenient." Hermione's nose twitched, horrified at the prospect such a thing. As she contemplated the thought of a public re-sorting with mortification, Dumbledore continued to talk logistics. "You may tell your housemates that you were sorted privately for just such reasons of convenience when you join them at the Welcoming Feast next week.

No doubt they will be curious about your unexpected presence, and you may tell them however much, or little, of your back story as you wish. What you would divulge in regards to that matter is at your discretion. But Miss Granger," the Headmaster turned suddenly serious blue eyes on her. "It is very prudent you stick to the backstory, and not reveal any information about your real past. Or future, as it were," He paused to chuckle, indulging in a brief moment of levity. "Time truly is a funny thing, isn't it?"

Hermione stared, and perhaps sensing that the girl did not think this was the moment for levity, Dumbledore reverted to a more serious tone before continuing "As I've said, you must stick to your back story. Any details regarding where you have truly come from could potentially be very dangerous if you were to reveal them. Understand that Miss Granger, for it is very important. You must never reveal the truth about your origins. That is paramount."

"I understand, Sir," Hermione said solemnly. Professor McGonagall had given her similar warnings at the start of her third year term, though in far less dire circumstances. Indeed, using a time turner to travel a few hours back and forth to extra classes seemed an almost benign endeavor now. She would have to figure out a new class schedule before her new 1973 term, Hermione realized distantly. The fact that she only had a week in which to do so was somewhat alarming to the young witch. Hermione was the opposite of a procrastinator, and usually had such matters settled well in advance of when they needed to be. A week was hardly any time, she thought, panic beginning to overtake her. Third year was critical at Hogwarts! The classes she took this year would determine her academic path for the rest of her school career!

She supposed she would have to drop some of the classes she had chosen in 1993; that was inevitable. Her prodigiously stacked schedule would be impossible to adhere to without the aid of a time turner, and that was surely out of the question now. Divination would be easy to let go of at least. Even her minimal experience of it from her own time told it was a class she surely wouldn't miss, and she had planned on dropping it in her own time anyway. Ironically, she might be perceived as having quite the talent for it now, should she chose to take it up. But of course she wasn't going to. The discipline was almost entirely nonsense as far as she could tell, and Hermione had no intention of making a dangerous spectacle of herself in this time by pretending to be some kind of seer. Muggle studies actually _was_ quite fascinating whatever Harry and Ron thought, but she supposed it was something of a soft option for her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, breaking a wild eyed Hermione from her academic musings. "Now that we have determined your house placement, and therefore where you will be staying whilst at Hogwarts during the school year, perhaps we should discuss where you will be staying when school is not in session," he suggested kindly.

Hermione started. So suddenly consumed had she been with thoughts of her class schedule, that for a moment she had quite forgotten the presence of the venerable Headmaster. Foolishly, she had assumed she would simply be staying in Gryffindor Tower, but of course that was out of the question. She knew from 'Hogwarts, A History' that the castle didn't have summer residents. It wouldn't do to have Dumbledore draw unnecessary attention to her presence by making an exception and having her stay at the castle during the holiday. Besides, she imagined it might be quite lonely. Even with the ghosts about. But then where _would_ she stay? For however long her sojourn in the past lasted?

"What did you have in mind, Sir?" Hermione asked quietly, bleak visions of becoming some kind of ward of the state dancing through her head. After all, she was effectively an orphan now.

"I think I have determined a wonderful and most convenient solution" Dumbledore pronounced, the sudden twinkle in his light blue eyes providing a stark contrast to the sadness in Hermione's own downcast brown ones. "Should you be amenable to it, Miss Granger."

He paused here deliberately, as though to let the suspense of his announcement build. Hermione simply waited.

"You will stay with Hagrid!" Dumbledore declared finally.

Hermione looked up at him, eyes wide with shock. "Hagrid?" she asked, with frank astonishment.

"Yes," Dumbledore said decisively. "There is no one with whom you would be safer, I am sure. I would trust Hagrid with my life, and I would entrust him with yours as well, my dear child, should you and he agree to the arrangement. The fact that he is so close to Hogwarts would only serve to further ensure your protection."

Hermione was speechless. Stay with Hagrid? She adored Hagrid, but she wasn't sure if he was the best candidate for living with and potentially raising a teenage girl. However, she also knew that, in her own time, Hagrid would have protected her, Harry or Ron with his own life without a thought. Indeed, Hermione suspected he would do so for anyone at Hogwarts. As Gamekeeper he seemed to feel he had a unique responsibility to protect the students and staff of the school, particularly the students. He was an exceedingly caring man. Not to mention, she knew that Hagrid would do anything for Dumbledore, to whom he was extremely loyal. There was no doubt he would say yes to taking Hermione in, given that it was a request of the Headmaster's.

"Stay with Hagrid," she said faintly to herself, continuing to mull it over. She supposed it was something of an ideal solution. Hagrid was someone she knew and trusted from her own time; someone she was comfortable with. Hopefully they would be able to develop a similarly close relationship in this time. And, as Dumbledore pointed out, the fact that Hagrid lived on the grounds of Hogwarts was exceedingly convenient. The living arrangement might get a bit awkward at times, but that was true living with anyone. Surely they could make it work. Except-

"Hagrid's cottage is quite small, Sir." Hermione pointed out practically. "I'm not sure if there's room for me."

Dumbledore smiled benignly at her. "Naturally, we can expand his cottage in order to give you your own space. I'm sure that with a little magical remodeling we can ensure ample room and privacy for the both of you," he said, solution at the ready.

"What will I eat?" Hermione blurted suddenly, thinking grimly of the offerings Hagrid usually provided her, Harry and Ron when they visited him for tea. She simply couldn't live on hard, inedible rock cakes and stoat sandwiches.

Dumbledore, it seemed, was familiar with Hagrid's cooking as well because he coughed indelicately into the sleeve of his robe in a manner that Hermione suspected was designed to hide a chortle.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said when he had finally emerged from his sleeve. "I think we can arrange something with the Hogwarts kitchens. We shall keep you well fed and watered my dear, don't you worry."

Hermione nodded, her concerns, at least in regards to food, assuaged for the moment.

"We are decided then," Dumbledore pronounced excitedly. "I will relay the bare bones of your cover story to Hagrid, leaving you to fill in the rest later as you see fit, and I am sure he will be delighted to take up your guardianship and to house you when you are not at school. He has been very concerned over you, my dear child."

Hermione lowered her eyes. Hagrid would be taking up her guardianship. And she was in need of guardianship because in this time, she had no parents. Or rather, her parents existed in this time, but they weren't _hers_. She was, for the time being at least, an orphan. The cover story Dumbledore had come up with for her about her dead family wasn't so far from the truth. After all, her family had been taken from her. Taken by time, rather than death, but at that moment the loss felt just as permanent to Hermione. She was all alone. Once again, she felt tears come to her eyes. It was quite possible she would never see her parents again.

Dumbledore was quiet, letting Hermione experience her grief. The child was entitled after all. Indeed, her manner was remarkably composed given her circumstances, despite her obvious upset. When she seemed to have collected herself, he addressed her once more.

"Perhaps you would like to return to the Hospital Wing while I get things settled with Hagrid," the Headmaster suggested gently. "That is, if you are willing to endure Poppy's fussing in the interim." His eyes sparkled in mild amusement. "You may even be able to get some much needed rest, if you are lucky."

"That sounds alright, Sir," Hermione said softy. She was profoundly exhausted, and she found herself thinking longingly the beds which populated the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, sterile and vaguely uncomfortable though they were. "I'd like to rest."

Dumbledore escorted an understandably dazed Hermione back to the Hospital Wing, leaving the girl in the very capable hands of Madam Pomfrey once more. Despite the tumult of anxious thoughts rushing around inside her mind, Hermione found herself falling into a restless sleep almost the second her head hit the stiff, white pillow of the hospital bed.

* * *

 **AN:** **Can ya'll tell I love to write Dumbledore though?**


	4. Discombobulation

Chapter 4: Discombobulation

Diagon Alley-August 27th, 1973

The hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley less than a week before the beginning of a new Hogwarts term was as frenetic as ever. Some things, Hermione thought with a smile, were timeless. Witches and wizards swarmed around shop windows and entrances, shoving and elbowing each other out of the way without regard as they clamored for better access to goods. Vendors shouted to be heard over one another as children gleefully ran about underfoot, working to evade their parents; animals adding their shrieks and cries to the cacophony of noise which filled the alley. Hermione was finding that despite the overwhelming swell of the crowd Hagrid managed to cut a path quite easily, his bulk handily dispersing the crush of people and leaving a clear path for her to tread in his wake. She hurried along behind him as he led the way toward Twilfitt and Tattings, struggling slightly to keep up with the large man's stride.

When they finally managed to reach the clothing store, Hagrid lingered at the window, peering bemusedly at clothing on display.

"I'll, er, leave you to it, shall I, Hermione?" he suggested, shuffling his feet. "Fashion isn't really my thing, if yeh get my meaning." He gestured illustratively towards his large moleskin overcoat, which, if Hermione was correct, was the same one he would still be wearing in twenty years' time. Its condition, as she remembered it, would be even more battered than the state it was in now. "Probably best left to the likes of you," Hagrid was saying. "I'd wager you'll know better what to get for yerself than I ever could."

Hermione nodded absently. She hardly felt qualified to be unleashed into the likes of Twilfitt and Tattings by herself, but she supposed Hagrid was right. If she was going to be forced to endure bra shopping in 1973, she hardly needed Hagrid looming over her the whole time acting as an awkward chaperone.

"Besides which, I got a couple of things ter pick up anyway. I'll come back and meet yeh in about an hour, alright lass?"

"Alright, Hagrid, thanks," Hermione replied, giving the Gamekeeper a grateful smile and a little wave. She watched her new guardian amble away down the street, his overcoat weighed down with a multitude of packages containing everything from potions ingredients and scales, to a set of third year books which was slightly altered from that which Hermione had purchased only a couple of weeks ago (to her mind) in the 1990's. It may not have been fashionable, but the upside of Hagrid's coat was that he could easily carry the entirety of her new set of school supplies, leaving her unburdened to shop for clothes. As unenthused as Hermione may have been about the prospect, it had to be done. For the last week she'd been alternating between wearing her mended 1990's era school uniform, and a series of questionable articles of clothing appropriated from the Hogwart's lost and found.

Steeling herself, she turned once more to Twilfitt and Tattings, pushing open the door to the upscale clothing shop. Her action triggered the cheerful tinkling of a small bell, announcing her presence to the sales staff. Hermione grimaced as she found herself suddenly pinned under the stares of a flock of young, posh looking, sales witches, all of whom appeared desperate to obtain a commission from her. Hermione really would have preferred to do all her clothes shopping at Madam Malkin's, but although they had 'robes for all occasions', they didn't have much in the way of anything else and, unfortunately, Hermione needed more than just robes. In point of fact, she needed a whole new wardrobe, as hers had been so inconveniently left behind in 1993 along with everything else. So Twilfitt and Tattings it was.

Forty-five minutes after entering the establishment, and Hermione was laden down with multiple shopping bags stuffed to brim with robes, sweaters, slacks and underthings. She found that wizarding fashions were not all that different from those that she was familiar with from the 1990's. It seemed that in contrast to muggle fashion, wizarding styles didn't evolve at a very rapid pace, which was absolutely fine with Hermione. The apparent steadfastness of wizarding fashion suited her purposes very well. She already felt out of place here, she certainly didn't want to feel as if she was wearing a costume all of the time as well. All the pieces she had purchased were very basic, or classic, as her mother may have said. Hermione was just glad that she would have clothes of her own again. Though she wasn't one to be overly invested in clothing or her own appearance, she had to admit that it would be nice to be able to wear something other than her school uniform again. Hermione had never been put in a position to realize it before, but it was quite terrible not to have access to underwear of one's own.

Her new 1970's wardrobe, along with her school supplies, had been purchased using the stipend which Dumbledore had set up to provide for her care and living expenses. She would receive a yearly allowance, and the amount was more than generous. Hermione couldn't' help but feel somewhat uncomfortable accepting the money, even if it was necessary and largely for the purpose of furthering her education. In her past life, her parents had always been able to provide Hermione with everything she might need, though they had never conceded to letting her get braces, much to her consternation. The fact that she was now dependent on a stipend from Dumbledore to survive served as a harsh reminder that, for all intents and purposes, she was entirely without family in the 1970's. She did have Hagrid though, and they had spent the past few days getting used to each other's presence as Dumbledore finalized the updates to the man's cottage necessary for Hermione to move in. Of course, until today, Hermione had possessed precious little to move in with, which is why she and Hagrid now found themselves in Diagon Alley on the most exhausting, extensive shopping trip of Hermione's young life.

It seemed the only thing she hadn't needed was a new wand, having somehow fortunately retained her own original one over the course of her trip through time. 1973 was already proving to be enough of an adjustment all on its own, and Hermione didn't know if she could handle a temperamental new wand on top of everything else. She curled her fingers around her the familiar vine wood of her precious magical instrument, the tool fitting comfortably in her slight hand. Idly, she wondered if there was a duplicate of her wand sitting in Olivander's shop right at this very moment, as of yet unsold. Maybe now, it never would be. She squeezed her wand tighter, as if to assure herself that it was real, that it was there, and that it was hers. Potions kits and ingredients could easily be replaced, but a person shared a real bond with their wand, and Hermione was exceedingly glad that she hadn't lost hers.

Hobbling awkwardly under the bulk of her many shopping bags, Hermione made her way to a nearby bench just outside Twilfitt and Tattings, plopping down and relinquishing her bags with relief as she settled in to wait for Hagrid. Only five minutes later, she spotted the Gamekeeper off in the distance but heading in her direction. The man wasn't exactly inconspicuous, large as he was, and carrying such a vast amount of packages. On top of everything else, it now looked to Hermione as if Hagrid was attempting to conceal something quite large beneath his overcoat, though this was made difficult by the fact that whatever it was kept moving. As he approached more closely, his mysterious new package continued to make itself known via extensive wriggling, drawing quite the amount of stares as Hagrid did his best to contain it. Hermione frowned speculatively, eyeing Hagrid's moving overcoat with apprehensive skepticism. She just hoped that whatever Hagrid was concealing, it wasn't some kind of frightening new type of spider he had happened upon and would try to convince everyone would make a delightful pet. While she hardly had as much of a problem with the many legged creatures as Ron, she certainly didn't want to live with one.

Hagrid came to a stop before Hermione's bench, smiling hugely at her despite the fact that he was still preoccupied with wrangling whatever lay beneath his coat. It seemed to be admitting high pitched shrieks now, which hopefully eliminated the possibility of it being any type of arachnid.

"Er, Hagird," Hermione ventured tentatively. "What's that you've got beneath your coat?"

"Well lass, I got yeh a bit of a surprise," Hagrid revealed. "Sort of a housewarming gift, ter be honest with yeh. I hope yeh like it!"

And with that, he threw aside his coat to reveal a cage containing a very haughty looking, sleek, black bird. The fact that the bird appeared profoundly irritated, ruffling its feathers and craning its neck proudly, only further added to its distinct air of nobility.

"Hagrid, is that a hawk?" Hermione asked in astonishment, staring at the creature in awe.

"Well spotted, Hermione!" Hagrid beamed at her, the future Care of Magical Creature's professor seemingly delighted at her ability to correctly identify the bird. "I almost got yeh an owl," he confessed, "but then I spotted this beauty in the corner o' the shop, lookin' down on everyone real proud like and such. Thought she might be a bit more exciting than an owl! She can still deliver letters an' all, just gotta be a bit more careful in yer handlin' o' her."

Hagrid paused to readjust the hawk's cage, eying Hermione worriedly as he did so. "Do yeh like her, lass?"

Hermione's eyes were brimming over with tears. She was unbelievably touched by Hagrid's gesture. Overcome with emotion, she launched herself into the Gamekeeper's side, hugging him fiercely.

"I love her, Hagrid," Hermione said, her voice choked with emotion and somewhat muffled due to her face being buried in Hagrid's side, but the giant of a man heard and understood her nevertheless. "It means so much. Thank you."

When Hermione finally withdrew from Hagrid's side, her eyes considerably less dry than they had been a few minutes previously. Herr new guardian was smiling gently at her, his eyes soft.

"I'm glad yeh like her, Hermione," he said earnestly. "What'll yeh name her?"

Hermione eyed the bird, who was still engaged in ruffling her feathers haughtily and periodically letting out indignant shrieks. Hermione cocked her head contemplatively. "I think I'll get to know her a little bit first before I settle on a name," she decided eventually, smiling at Hagrid.

He tipped his head at her. "Not a bad idea, lass."

"Now," Hagrid gestured at the virtual mountain of shopping bags which Hermione had left forgotten on her abandoned bench. "I think we've done quite enough shopping for one day, don't you, best to be getting' on home, I should think."

Hermione nodded, gathering up the last of her bags while Hagrid busied himself with the hawk, cooing at the animal lovingly as he hitched her cage higher up on his hip. It did, at least, seem easier to manage now that he wasn't trying to hide it beneath his overcoat. Then, everything settled and accounted for, Hermione placed her small hand in Hagrid's much larger one, and together, they headed towards home.

* * *

Several days later, after a considerable degree of observation and consideration, Hermione had decided on a name for her new familiar; Lady Macbeth, or Lady, for short. If drawing on Shakespearean works of literature for inspiration when choosing a name had been good enough for her parents, it was certainly good enough for Hermione. Besides which, the name really did seem fitting. Lady, as Hermione had discovered over the course of the last few days, had quite the dark, haughty aura about her, and she was undeniably proud. Slowly but surely though, Hermione felt that they were developing a good relationship based on mutual respect. And Lady certainly did demand respect. Hermione couldn't help but like that about her. She'd always been drawn to highly intelligent animals with complex personalities. She missed Crookshanks something awful, of course, but perhaps, in time, they would be reunited. And already, she was falling in love with Lady, too. Hermione was terribly touched that Hagrid had gotten her such a thoughtful gift. He really was a sweetheart of a man, and he was doing his best to make her feel welcome here, despite the difficulty of her situation and the suddenness with which she had been thrust upon him and entrusted into his care.

"How'd yeh decide on that?" Hagrid asked curiously when Hermione informed of the name she had selected for her new familiar.

"It's after a character from a muggle play," Hermione explained, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "She's _quite_ diabolical; a murderess actually. Or, at least, responsible for orchestrating one."

"Your bird has a lot to live up to then, doesn't she lass?" Hagrid said, raising eyebrows at her from across the breakfast table and smiling into his teacup.

"I suppose so," Hermione laughed, reaching for her toast and spreading some peach preserves on it before taking a nibble. If she was honest though, she didn't actually have much of an appetite. It was the morning of August 31st, and she and Hagrid were sharing a companionable breakfast in preparation for what was sure to be a busy day. As unbelievable as it seemed to Hermione, the 1973 Hogwarts term was set to begin the next evening, and Hagrid, as Hogwarts Gamekeeper, had much to prepare for before the legions of students arrived. Just the same as in the 1990's, when Hermione had made the journey herself as an unsure eleven year old filled with false bravado, Hagrid was charged with guiding the first years across the Black Lake, ushering them toward their first sight of Hogwarts. It was a duty Hermione could see that Hagrid delighted in, able to witness the young student's reactions as they finally caught sight of the castle for the first time and were inevitably awed by its majesty.

In the lead up to the arrival of the students though, there was much to be done. Hogwarts was a positive flurry of activity at the moment. There was a veritable mass of things needing to be finalized, and a seemingly endless amount of little adjustments to be made around the castle and across the grounds, all of which fell under the purview of Hagrid's gamekeeping duties. Hermione, for her part, wasn't without obligations of her own. For one thing, she had to pack, as ridiculous as that seemed given that she would only be relocating just the short distance from Hagrid's cottage up to the castle. The Hogwarts grounds were vast, but her trip this year would hardly necessitate taking an hour's long train ride across the country, and it certainly wouldn't occupy the majority of her day, as the journey from platform 9 and ¾'s to Hogwarts usually did.

With a start, Hermione realized that now that she lived with Hagrid, so close to the school, she would perhaps never have need to take the Hogwarts Express again. The thought saddened her, and she forcefully shoved it out of her mind before she could become too preoccupied with melancholy. She had quite enough to fret over already without adding any new additional concerns. Tomorrow she would be making her way once more to Hogwarts, as she had done only a few weeks previously. Or at least, that's what it felt like to Hermione. In reality, the trips would be decades apart, but to the displaced witch they were separated only by a short and very strange interlude.

Later, sitting in her newly appointed bedroom surrounded by an array of possessions that didn't quite feel like hers yet, in a space that didn't quite feel like hers yet either, and Hermione was struggling not to become overwhelmed with anxiety. She lay curled up on the bed, another thing that didn't yet feel like hers, hugging her knees to her chest and staring blankly at her brand new school trunk. Brand new and newly packed. It seemed quite silly now to have bought all new things, and to have spent time setting them up in her new room, only to pack them all away again just a few days later. But Hermione supposed she was going through the motions of it all. She didn't quite know what else to do, discombobulated as she was. At times she almost felt as if she was adjusting, beginning to feel at least somewhat normal again, but these were mere moments; brief flashes of time where for a millisecond she forgot where - _when_ \- she was, and that her existence was now very far from normal. Perhaps, Hermione thought darkly, flashes of normality were all she would have now. Perhaps she would never truly feel normal again; never at peace, never at home. Just there, stuck in the wrong time. An anachronism in human form.

Hermione sighed heavily, curling her body more tightly into itself. She was allowing herself to get despondent again, and while she knew rationally that such feelings weren't productive, she just couldn't seem to help her emotions. The hectic activity which had filled the last few days, including moving into Hagrid's cottage, and her excursion with him to Diagon Alley, had managed to distract her for a while from the bleak reality of her situation. But such distractions were only temporary, and now, here alone in her new room, Hermione could focus on nothing but how hopelessly adrift she felt in the 1970's. For the first time in her life, she was dreading the start of school the next day, when it was something she had always reveled in previously. Even in 1993, when the beginning of the school term had been marred by her worry over Sirius Black, she had still been excited to get back to Hogwarts. Now, repeating the process under vastly different circumstances, all Hermione felt was an increasingly all-consuming sense of dread.

This dread was spurred in now small amount by the fact that she would be sharing classes and a common room with a young Sirius Black, a man whom she knew would later become Death Eater and mass murderer. It seemed his presence was a dark shadow hanging over both 1993 and 1973, despite the decades between the years. Hermione knew there would be other future Death Eaters residing in the castle as well, lurking ominously in the wings of the Hogwarts of this time. Lucius Malfoy, to name one of the particularly dangerous. She would have to be exceedingly careful here. Dumbledore was right, if anyone were to find out her true origins, it would be utterly catastrophic. If Hermione had thought hiding a time turner was an albatross around her neck dragging her down, it was nothing compared to the weight of the secret which she now needed to keep. And she was almost entirely alone in her bearing of it. She hadn't even shared everything she knew with Dumbledore. In actuality, she had shared very little with the Headmaster, relating things only in the broadest of terms, and on a purely need to know basis. The two of them were each fully aware of the dangers of her being more specific. Even if she had told him everything, Dumbledore was hardly the type of person she would be able to confide in regularly in order to obtain relief. The man was exorbitantly busy, and any unusual amount of attention she received from him was sure to garner suspicion.

No. Hermione was all alone here. Just her, Sirius Black and a cadre of future Death Eaters. The young witch did realize, of course, that the Hogwarts of the 1970's wasn't populated solely with malevolent figures. There were also benign ones, she knew, but Hermione feared that they could be just as dangerous to her. Quite separate from Sirius Black, on the opposite end of the spectrum of her anxieties, Hermione would be sharing a common room with Harry's parents, and even more intimately, a dorm with Lily. She could scarcely fathom how her interactions with the Potters would play out, but she vowed that she would catalogue and remember every detail of Harry's parents for him that she could, just in case she ever managed to get back to her friend. Dumbledore hadn't managed to impart much hope to her on that front, but Hermione had to hang on to the possibility of returning to her original time, however slim that possibility might have been. It may have been an unrealistic delusion, but it was one that Hermione needed. Without it, she feared that she may go completely insane, and she already felt far too close to going off the rails. The amount of pressure she was under was almost too much for one thirteen year old witch to handle on her own. Or was she fourteen now, Hermione wondered idly? Everything was so tangled and confusing right now, she didn't even know how old she was. In the face of such complicated realities, it was hard not to succumb to hopelessness.

Despite all her worries about the next day, Hermione could at least look forward to the coming familiarity of the Gryffindor common room. As she fell into a fitful, anxious sleep, she tried to take comfort from visions of cozy, red arm chairs and warm, crackling fires.

* * *

 **AN:** Next chapter is going to be a long one. Hermione starts school and we finally get Sirius, Lily, James and the rest of the marauders :) As always, let me know if you see any mistakes and I'll do my best to fix them ASAP.


	5. A Series of Revelations

**AN:** _Primer on what Hermione (thinks) she knows, versus what she doesn't. Basically, she knows that Sirius Black was imprisoned for murdering 12 muggles and Peter Pettigrew, that he was a Death Eater, and that he escaped Azkaban to come after Harry. She does not know he was the Potter's secret keeper, as it was known only to very few people and she went back in time way before Harry overheard this in Hogsmeade. So she thinks Sirius is a murderer and a Death Eater, but not that he directly led to the murder of Harry's parents._

 _Also, as you may have noticed, this work is probably going to be full of Shakespeare references, somewhat because Hermione's name is taken from one of his works and I feel like that would make her predisposed to him, but mostly because I enjoy being pretentious._

* * *

Chapter 5: A Series of Revelations

Waiting for the arrival of something which you are dreading considerably is truly an awful thing. This was the first of many unfortunate conclusions which Hermione Granger would come to on the day of September 1st, 1973. From the moment she woke that morning from a fretful sleep, feeling far from rested, Hermione knew it was going to be a long day. Despite her tepid appetite, she forced herself to eat a bit of breakfast, managing to choke down some boiled eggs along with her morning tea. Never before had she experienced such a high degree of anxiety pertaining to school, not even when it came to final exams, which always sent her stress levels skyrocketing, and could admittedly make her a little crazy. But this time, the source of her stress wasn't academic in nature. That was a source of stress with which Hermione was familiar; one that she knew how to manage and handle quite well. Indeed, she had always excelled at using academic stressors to spur her on, able to convert them into strong academic results of which she could be proud. Embarking to Hogwarts for the new school year in 1973, on the other hand, was not something that the academically inclined witch was not emotionally or mentally prepared for in any way.

For once, Hermione was hardly worried about her classes. Inevitably, she'd had to sacrifice a few of the subjects which she'd signed on for in her original third year term. For this second go round in 1973, she'd made some necessary cuts in service of a more realistic schedule, one that didn't necessitate the use of a time turner in order to manage it. Ultimately, Hermione had been forced to let go of Divination and Muggle Studies. Care of Magical Creatures she had kept as something of a nostalgic concession to Hagrid, knowing it would please her new guardian that she was taking the class, even if it didn't seem quite as vital to her as some of her other courses. Dropping Muggle Studies had been a particularly agonizing decision for her, but in the end she had decided that, on the grounds of practicality, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes took priority over the other discipline. The result of her careful deliberations was a schedule that, although somewhat scaled back, Hermione thought would suit her well in 1973.

It was not academic dilemmas that concerned Hermione that morning, but rather dilemmas of a more personal and social nature. Due to the fact that she was currently located immediately adjacent to Hogwarts, thereby eliminating any need to spend the majority of her day occupied with traveling to the school, Hermione had an unfortunately ample amount of time to fret about her coming interactions with the 1970's population of Hogwarts. It was only half past ten in the morning, and Hermione was already finding the wait for the start of term feast that evening excruciating.

In an effort to distract herself, she settled in to peruse her new, 1970's set of text and spell books, curious to see what, if any, differences existed between them and what she had been familiar with from the 1990's. Not much had changed in twenty years' time, she found, although updates were warranted here and there throughout many of her new (or rather, old) texts. Flipping through her potions book, Hermione was reminded that the wolfsbane potion had not yet been invented in this time. She had forgotten the vital and complex brew was such a relatively recent development. Naturally, the events of the war with Voldemort were omitted from her History of Magic text, due to the fact that they had yet to occur. Otherwise though, the content of the books was much the same as what she had seen in her previous 90's editions.

A seemingly interminable amount of time later, although, disappointingly, just a mere hour had past, and Hermione had thoroughly exhausted the diversionary capacity of her set of new school books. Atypically for the witch, the texts had been utterly unable to hold her interest. Such was Hermione's level of anxiety that she couldn't even manage to find comfort from books, her oldest and most familiar of refuges. She sighed heavily, falling back on her new bed with a heavy thump. Blowing her bangs off of her face, Hermione contemplated an attempt at a nap. After all, she had slept very badly the previous night, and she could certainly use the recharging effects of a decent rest. Vexingly though, she found that it wasn't any easier for her to fall asleep in the daylight than it had been for her the night before. In an unhappy realization, Hermione was forced to accept that it seemed the only way her body would let itself succumb to slumber would be with the benefit of a nice sleeping draught.

With the thought of this potential solution in mind, Hermione peeled herself from her new bed and dragged her exhausted self to Hagrid's undersized bathroom. Her own newly made bathroom in the cottage had yet to be populated with anything more useful or exiting than shampoo and toothpaste. Rummaging through Hagrid's medicine cabinet, Hermione was somewhat alarmed and perplexed at the array of bottles, vials, tools and otherwise unusual items she found there. Why was Hagrid keeping slug pellets in his bathroom, she wondered with a faint sense of alarm? And what on earth was tongue tonic? The young witch wrinkled her nose at the potential prospective uses of that one.

Moving aside various mysterious items as she poked about the cupboard looking for a dreamless sleep potion, Hermione was very careful not to tip anything over and spill unknown chemicals on herself. She nearly choked when, in the process of her search, she came across of bottle of Sleakeazy's Smoothing Hair Potion. If Hagrid was using it on himself, it clearly wasn't working. Hermione was pretty sure combs and brushes alike had been known to spontaneously combust out of pure fear when confronted with the man's notoriously wild mane. Her own hair was fairly chaotic, she could admit that, she'd certainly received enough hurtful comments about it over the years, but she didn't think even her bushy locks could hold a candle to Hagrid's.

Maybe she should appropriate the Sleakeazy's for herself, Hermione thought with a frown; try a new look in the 1970's. Her fingers lingered unsurely over the bottle. The potion didn't seem to be doing Hagrid any good. Surely her new guardian wouldn't miss it. But no, Hermione decided with a small, decisive shake of her head. Her mother always said she should embrace her curls as part of her own 'unique form of beauty', and however sappy and cliché that may have been, Hermione was still inclined to follow her advice. She smiled wryly; that was mothers for you. But, as her father said, her mother wasn't often wrong, and quite often she was right. It would do no good to give in to her insecurities here in the 1970's anymore than it would have done in the 1990's. She didn't need Sleakeazy's. Besides, who knew if the tonic would even work? It was probably a scam, like one of those made for television products that were so prolific in the muggle world, which promised you could magically lose weight or regain your hair with a pill. Pure silliness and stupidity, Hermione dismissed, shoving the Sleakeazy's aside.

Just a few minutes later, she finally managed to locate a bottle of standard sleeping draught. With a triumphant cry, Hermione seized joyously upon the potion. Contained within the small, turquoise, vial were relief and some much needed sleep. Or at least, that was the idea. Hastily uncorking the bottle, Hermione tossed back the contents of it without hesitation. Making her way back down the hall to her new room, Hermione climbed eagerly back into bed, not even bothering to get undressed. After all, she would be changing into her school uniform later anyway, so there was no need to be concerned with wrinkling anything. Tucking her covers around herself and burrowing happily into the cozy nest of blankets she had constructed, Hermione settled in for what she hoped would be a good, long nap. A short time thereafter, with the aid of the sleeping draught, the exhausted witch promptly fell into a blessedly, deep sleep, the kind of which had so eluded her the night before.

Along with its obvious restorative properties, one of the wonderful, curious things about sleep is that it has ability of seeming to compress time. When Hermione awoke later from her much needed nap, feeling considerably more well rested than she had earlier, but still significantly anxious, it felt to her as though only minutes had passed since she had taken the sleeping draught. Mercifully, it had, in fact, been hours, and it was now almost half past five in the afternoon. Night was rapidly approaching and the time when she would head up to the school along with the rest of the students was drawing nearer.

Now that the welcoming feast was only a few hours away, Hermione could feasibly occupy herself with getting ready for it. She had always loved getting dressed in her Hogwarts uniform. There was something almost magical about the experience for the young witch, if you would forgive her the use of such a hackneyed phrase. Just the ordinary act putting on her gray sweater, marked with the small Hogwart's insignia, usually had the ability to immediately transport her into an academic frame of mind, exciting her for the coming school year. This year, perhaps inevitably, the magic felt somewhat lacking. Though Hermione had already gotten dressed in her school things, she found that the act hadn't managed to engender any of the usual excitement in her. She felt less like she was preparing for the start of term, and more like she was preparing for battle. Here in the 1970's though she supposed the two things nearly amounted to one in the same.

Straightening her Gryffindor house tie, Hermione frowned at her mirrored reflection. Although she had used the stipend she had been granted by Dumbledore to purchase additional necessary uniforms and uniform components, along with a couple of sets of new robes, Hermione found herself drawn to the uniform she had brought with her from the 1990's. The damage which it had suffered as a result of her inadvertent trip through time had been mended upon her arrival in the 1970's, although by whom she wasn't sure. Whatever the case, with all conspicuous blood stains having since been properly removed, the uniform was once again completely wearable. Indeed, Hermione was wearing it now. It was one of the only physical remainders that she possessed from her original time, and on this night, when she would enter the full fray of the 1970's for the first time, she clung desperately to that remainder, donning it like secret armor.

When the time which she had been so anxiously anticipating all day, stewing for hours in a combination of dread and resignation, finally did arrive, it was partly due to her secretly 90's accoutrements that Hermione found herself feeling so mentally prepared for the evening to come. Shockingly, she was calmer than she had been all day. As she prepared to head up to the castle that evening, escorted by Hagrid (the larger than life man had already delivered the first years into the stern keeping of Professor McGonagall) Hermione reflected on her oddly poised state. Her nerves, which had been such a frenzied state all day, were remarkably steady now that night had fallen, and it was time for her to make her way at long last up to the castle for the sorting and the Welcoming Feast. Perhaps it was true what they said about the waiting being the worst bit of things, Hermione thought as she traversed the worn path from Hagrid's hut up to Hogwarts, familiar to her even in the darkness, unchanged as it was from her time.

She was unsure of what exactly would happen at the feast. Of course there would be the sorting, and the usual start of term announcements to make, but Dumbledore would have an additional announcement this year. He would have to make a statement regarding her, explaining her unexpected presence. Random thirteen year old girls simply didn't pop up Hogwarts already sorted, unnoticed and unremarked upon. People would be curious, and small school that it was, Hermione was sure to attract her fair share of attention for a while, until her novelty was sufficiently worn off. That was inevitable, unwanted though it may have been. Dumbledore would surely try to make his statement about her as brief and innocuous as possible, not wanting to draw any more attention to Hermione than precisely necessary. But a statement nevertheless he would have to make. To not make one would only draw _more_ attention to her. If people weren't provided a plausible explanation of something, then they would speculate, and in Hermione's case, given her unusual origins, that could only lead to unfortunate discoveries.

Hermione had seen Hogwart's ability to be overtaken by such things illustrated very clearly in her second year there, when all the business with the Chamber of Secrets had been going on. Wild theories about possible Heirs of Slytherin had run rampant in the corridors, including with her, Harry and Ron, and among the staff as well as the students. Rumor and speculation could be very powerful forces, and very damaging too. Hermione was sure that Dumbledore would make his introduction of her as mundane as he possibly could, in an effort to guard against such manias. For her part, Hermione was determined that she would do nothing here in the 1970's to attract suspicion, undue attention, or to spur any wild rumors on the off chance that they might veer inadvertently into some version of something approaching the truth. It would be a very delicate business, she was sure, but Hermione had always been good at toeing the line and following the rules. Until she had met Harry and Ron, that is. But they weren't here, were they, Hermione thought hollowly, the realization accompanied by a painful thud in her chest. She was on her own now.

The trek up to the castle was relatively short, or it certainly felt that way to Hermione, and soon enough she had arrived with Hagrid before the large double door which marked the front entrance to Hogwarts.

After a few moments of heavy silence in which they simply stared at the door, which seemed rather more ominous and intimidating to Hermione than it ever had previously, Hagrid turned to face her. The look of concern on her new guardians face was frankly apparent, even couched as it was in his impressively bushy beard.

"Ready?" Hagrid asked, extending a hand towards the doors.

"As I'll ever be, I suspect," Hermione said, a kind of grim determination having over taken her.

Hagrid nodded, seeming almost equally grim as his charge, before reaching forward to haul open the doors and usher Hermione inside the castle.

The entrance hall was empty, the first years who had so recently occupied it having been directed into the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall to be sorted. Dumbledore had determined that he would make his statement regarding Hermione immediately after the regular sorting had concluded, and that she should make her way into the hall in the wake of said explanatory pronouncement. In the meantime though, Hermione found she was able to listen to the remainder of the sorting, the sound of which was projecting itself quite clearly into the entrance hall where she and Hagrid were waiting. Indeed, not only could she hear everything that was going on in the main hall at the feast, if she positioned herself directly in front of the doors to the Great Hall, Hermione realized she could peek in and see as well. She did so, to the apparent indulgent amusement of Hagrid, who let out a little chuckle at her display of curiosity. Peering in through the crack in the door Hermione had quite a clear view of the stage where the first years were stood, and she was able to spy a scraggly line of largely pale and timid looking young people, many of whom were shifting nervously. She couldn't imagine that she would interacting directly with very many of the new first years, besides the prospective Gryffindors that is, but it couldn't hurt to listen and hear if she recognized any of the surnames. It was an interesting diversion at any rate, if nothing else. It seemed that she hadn't missed all that much of the sorting, as the hat appeared only to be on the 'B's. A Melinda Becker had just been sorted into Hufflepuff.

"Black, Regulus," the hat called next, and Hermione choked slightly, turning quite as pale as the slight, black haired boy who stepped forward in response to the hat's summons. Regulus Black was Sirius Black's little brother, Hermione recalled through her shock, though she hadn't been aware until just now of his exact age. Eleven in 1973, apparently. As soon as Sirius Black had escaped, and especially after she'd found out he was after Harry, Hermione had set to researching everything about Black and his family that she could get her hands on. There had been quite a lot of material for her to work with, the Black's being one of the so called 'sacred 28', which comprised the oldest and most well established pureblood families in Britain. Not to mention that, due to an apparent familial affinity for dark magic and generally unsavory conduct, there were quite a lot of arrest records and court cases dealing with members of the Black family throughout the years. Mentions of the misdeeds of various Black's stretched all throughout the public record of the families long and prominent history within the Wizarding World.

Hermione had already heard of Bellatrix Black, of course, even before she'd begun the research spurred by Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban. Based on reputation alone, Bellatrix was someone whom Hermione dearly wished to avoid encountering in the 1970's. She knew that Bellatrix was a cousin of Sirius', as well as a high ranking and particularly vicious Death Eater, but Hermione wasn't sure if she would have still been at Hogwarts in 1973. Hermione knew far less about Sirius' brother Regulus than she did about his infamous cousin Bellatrix though. Despite her considerably extensive research in the 1990's, all she'd managed to learn back then about Regulus Black was that he was Sirius Black's little brother, and that he had died near the end of war in service to the Dark Lord. He would have been quite young, Hermione realized. Not too much older than he was now. Regulus Black hardly looked threatening as an eleven year old, but that didn't mean he would remain so innocuous forever. Whatever Regulus had gotten up to later in life as a Death Eater though, it hadn't been anything notorious enough to earn him any infamy, at least not the likes of which other members of his family would manage to attain, namely Sirius and Bellatrix. Whatever he had done had been obscured and overshadowed by the more famous family members of his generation.

The hat was taking quite a while with him, Hermione noted. Not a hat stall quite yet, but getting there. As time dragged on and people began to whisper, Regulus clutched at the sorting hat with white knuckled hands, his face screwed up in a distinctly pained expression. Actually, he appeared to be arguing with the hat, if Hermione wasn't mistaken, and rather desperately too.

"Slytherin!" the hat announced finally, prompting an obvious sigh of relief from Regulus Black, and an outbreak of applause from what was presumably the Slytherin house table, although this wasn't visible from Hermione's vantage point at the crack in the door.

Harry had had a bit of an argument with the sorting hat as well, Hermione recalled as she watched Regulus trot off the stage to take his place among his new housemates, although the result had been very different for her friend. Harry had argued desperately to avoid Slytherin. Regulus, it seemed, had wanted the opposite. So what, Hermione wondered, or rather which House, had he been trying to avoid? She supposed it was inconsequential in the end. Belonging to the Black family, it was hardly surprising that Regulus had fought so hard to get into Slytherin, regardless of where the hat may have been inclined to place him. Given what she knew of the politics of the Blacks, it would have practically been a requirement that Regulus obtain a place in Slytherin House. Anything else would have been considered something of a disappointment, and in all probability would have dealt a blow to the family's pride and reputation in English pureblood circles. Curious, then, that Sirius Black had ended up in Gryffindor.

In the midst of her contemplation of Regulus and pureblood politics, the hat had made its way through the rest of the 'B's' and gone on to sort Meghan Cooper and Reginald Dottington, sending them to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw respectively. After Regulus' sorting, the rest of the start of term event proceeded as innocuously as ever. Here and there Hermione would recognize the surname of one of the new students, but that was only to be expected. The wizarding community in Britain was quite small, and many of the families which made it up had been sending their children to Hogwarts for generations now. The same crop of old names did tend to repeat itself, with muggle borns and half bloods filling out the rest of each class and adding a little color to the mix, so to speak. It didn't take long for the sorting hat to make its way through the line of new students, and scarcely before Hermione knew it, only one remained, an unusually confident looking blonde girl. Monica Yaxley was declared for Slytherin nearly the moment the sorting hat touched her head, and with that, the sorting ceremony of 1973 was officially complete.

The moment of the evening concerning her, the moment which she had so been dreading these past days, had very nearly arrived. Dumbledore was about to make his announcement regarding her, and then it would be time for her to make her entrance. In preparation, Hermione retreated from the crack in the Great Hall doors in order to needlessly straighten her Gryffindor tie and nervously attempt to smooth her unsmooth-able hair. At least, she reflected gratefully, Dumbledore wasn't making her enter onto the stage as the poor first years had done. Hermione wasn't sure if she would've been able to bare such a thing, and besides, she had already endured that humiliation in her own first year. Quite aside from that, this whole thing felt like enough of a spectacle already, it hardly needed any unnecessary dramatic flourishes. As it was, Hermione would enter through the main, Great Hall doors, as she had done countless times before, albeit in a whole other decade.

"Just like I'm headed to any other dinner," she muttered to herself, forcefully attempting to ignore the fact that this was hardly the case, given that it was 1973 rather than 1993, and Harry and Ron were conspicuously not there walking in on either side of her. She did have Hagrid though, Hermione thought, sparing a strained smile for the giant of a man. She could be very glad of that at least.

"Now," Dumbledore was saying from inside the Hall. "I have one last announcement this evening, just one more before we eat, I promise you!"

Although she wasn't watching, Hermione found she could envision the Headmaster's indulgent smile and raised hand against the traditional outcry that always accompanied delays of the feast.

"We have one additional new student this year, and the more the merrier as I always say, a Miss Hermione Granger!" There was a smattering of scattered applause and an outbreak of shocked whispers.

Once quiet had settled once more over the hall, Dumbledore continued, having adopted a more somber tone. "Miss Granger is transferring to us from the institution of Walsingham in Chislehurst, due to unforeseen and very grave circumstances." Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "I urge you all to respect her privacy at this very difficult time. Miss Granger has already been sorted, and will be joining our Gryffindor third years. Let us have a very warm welcome for Hermione Granger!"

There was another outbreak of scattered applause, and, taking her cue, Hermione approached the double doors to the Great Hall, preparing to make her entrance. She paused before them, glancing back one last time at Hagrid in an effort to draw courage from the man, before finally pushing open the doors. She was met with a sea of curious faces attached to craning necks, and the effect was almost staggeringly overwhelming. Hermione had never been on the receiving end of such undivided attention at Hogwarts, she wasn't Harry, for Godric's sake, and she found herself bowled over in the face of it. There was a brief moment when, unable to will her legs to move, she simply stood frozen in the doorway like a frightened deer faced with an entire hunting party bent on her destruction. Luckily, she had Hagrid at her back to break the spell and give her the push she needed. Literally, as it turned out.

"Alright, lass, this is where I leave yeh," he said gruffly. "Go on then!" Placing his large hands on Hermione's shoulders, he gave the girl an encouraging shove towards the Gryffindor table, perhaps a tad more forcefully than he meant to or realized. Hermione stumbled a bit.

"And don't forget to come visit me now!" Hagrid called after her as she was regaining her equilibrium. Not exactly the most elegant or inconspicuous entrance she could have made, but what was a girl to do. She shot Hagrid a little wave and an assuring smile. Despite the odd pair they made, and the unorthodoxy of their relationship, Hermione had a feeling that she and Hagrid were going to be even closer in the 1970's than they had been in the 1990's.

People were still applauding, and Hermione desperately wished that they would stop. Quickly taking a seat at the end of the Gryffindor table, she commenced with trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Given that she was scarcely 5'2 and usually accompanied by the famous Harry Potter and a rather loud Weasley, it usually wasn't much of an effort for Hermione to disappear into the background at Hogwarts, but she was finding it rather unfortunately difficult at this moment in time. Just when it was becoming quite unbearable, Dumbledore announced that it was finally time for the much awaited feast, which would hopefully go some way towards redirecting people's interest away from Hermione and towards the large quantities of delicious food which had suddenly appeared.

In all honesty, Hermione herself didn't have much of an appetite, but she dove eagerly into plating up some dinner for herself nevertheless, grateful for anything to occupy her that wasn't awkwardly attempting to ignore the curious stares of her new 1970's housemates. Besides, she'd hardly had anything to eat all day, and, rationally, Hermione knew that she could probably use some sustenance. She was just reaching for some garlic potatoes that had managed to stir her interest, if only just a bit, when she was diverted from her task by the small, hesitant clearing of a throat.

Looking up, Hermione was confronted by the sight of a slight, red headed girl with startlingly green eyes. Startling, in that the girl's eyes were an exact match to Harry Potter's, from the color down to shape. Lily's eyes though, and this girl had to be Lily, Hermione may not have ever seen pictures of her at this age, but there was no mistaking the girl before her as anything but Harry's mum, were unobscured by glasses, and her eyelashes were slightly lighter colored than Harry's. Hermione found herself dazed with shock, utterly bowled over by the sight of her best friend's mother in the form of a thirteen year old girl. Mentally, Hermione had tried to prepare for this eventuality; she had known it would be coming, and she had known it would be difficult. Lily, as well as certain other figures whose futures Hermione knew far too much about, were the reason she had hesitated, if only for a brief moment, over rejoining Gryffindor. Nearly Headless Nick wasn't the only ghost lurking about the confines of Gryffindor tower during the 1970's. Perhaps Hermione had chosen to focus so intently on food at the onset of the feast in an effort to delay difficult interactions with any such ghosts, despite knowing their inevitability. Defense mechanisms were truly a wondrous thing, but in her case they hadn't succeeded in staving off the inevitable for very long.

Staring at Lily with what was surely a frightfully stupid look on her face, it was rapidly becoming clear to Hermione that any attempt at mental preparation which she had made for this type of encounter was hopelessly insufficient in the face of the actual experience.

"Er, hi," said Lily eventually, giving Hermione a little wave. "I'm Lily Evans, and this is Dorcas Meadows and Mary McDonald," she gestured at two other girls stood on either side of her, neither of whom Hermione had noticed before that moment, so consumed had she been with staring at Lily. "We're third year Gryffindors as well. Thought we'd come over and introduce ourselves, given that we'll be sharing a dorm and all," Lily finished, laughing slightly and smiling at Hermione. Her new dorm mates should have, in any other circumstance, made quite the welcoming trio. Unfortunately, Hermione was burdened with the unpleasant knowledge that all three of the girls in front of her, not just Lily, would die in the war in just a few years' time. She found that had quite the dampening effect on her, despite the girls' reassuring smiles.

"Hermione Granger," she managed finally, after an awkward period of overly long silence. Her own introduction was somewhat needless in the wake of Dumbledore's announcement about her, but she had to say something. Besides, observance of social ritual had a way of making people feel more comfortable, Hermione had found, so it wasn't entirely pointless.

"You mind if we sit?" Lily asked, motioning at the empty expanse of bench directly across from Hermione, and proceeding to plonk herself down there with a smile before the other witch had a chance to respond. Dorcas and Mary took seats next to red head, smiling as well, though not quite as brightly as Lily seemed prone to. Of the three girls, Hermione thought that it was Lily who seemed to have the most confidence. At any rate, she'd done most of the talking so far, and it had clearly been Lily's idea for her, Mary and Dorcas to come over and introduce themselves. She was almost aggressively friendly, Hermione observed. But in a nice way.

"Yes, of course, sit," Hermione said belatedly, stilling feeling somewhat dazed in the face of this onslaught of friendship from her best friend's dead mum.

"Thanks," Lily chirped, bestowing yet another smile on Hermione. "Do you have your schedule yet? Are you very excited about your classes? What are you-"

"Lily!" Dorcas interrupted her friend, elbowing her in the side. "Don't bore the poor girl with talk of academics straight away, you'll put her off. Besides, we have much more important things to tell her."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Dorcas clearly hadn't taken the proper measure of her if she thought Hermione was one to be bored by talk of academics.

The blonde witch leaned in towards Hermione, her long hair swishing across the table as she moved. "I don't know how much you know about it," she said in a conspiratorially low voice, "but I just want to inform that you're very lucky to have made Gryffindor. All the other houses are crap."

"Dorcas!" Lily admonished, looking scandalized. "That's not true at all!" she protested earnestly, turning to Hermione. "There are nice people in all the houses, and there are crap people in all of them too. Gryffindor's not immune to that."

Lily paused here to shoot a rather nasty look at a group of boys about half way down the table from them who were being quite loud. Hermione judged them to be about their age and noted, with a punch to the gut, that one of them was sporting glasses and a familiar looking heap of messy black hair. That had to be James Potter. Hermione was sure of it, just as she had been sure of Lily.

"Those are the Gryffindor third year boys," Lily provided with a scowl, following the direction of Hermione's now fixed gaze. "And a more obnoxious bunch of tossers you will never meet, that I can tell you."

Hermione coughed, having choked slightly on her potatoes.

Nearly Headless Nick, who happened to be passing behind her just at that moment, attempted, in a gentlemanly fit that was likely the result of manners which had been ingrained in him at Elizabethan court, to help by patting her on the back. While it may have been well meaning on the ghost's part, the gesture was entirely useless, considering his spectral hand passed right through her, and rather more unpleasant than he may have realized.

"Are you alright, Miss?" the ghost of Gryffindor tower inquired politely when she had finally stopped sputtering.

"Yes, yes, quite alright, thanks Nick," Hermione said hoarsely, conjuring up a wan smile for him and her now gaping dorm mates. "Wrong tube, that's all."

Having been assured of her relative wellbeing, Sir Nick gave Hermione one somber nod, before floating away to concern himself with other matters, joining up with the Bloody Baron up near the staff table.

In the frenzy of it all, no one, including Hermione herself, had so much as made anything of the fact that she had known to call the noble ghost by his name, despite the fact that Nick hadn't had the time or opportunity to introduce himself to her.

"Sorry about that, sorry," Hermione said when she had fully recovered, cheeks pinking slightly in embarrassment. She really was making quite the spectacle of herself tonight, it was all honestly quite tragic. "What were you saying just now about our year mates?"

"Right, _'the Marauders'_ ," Lily said scathingly, gesturing once more at the boys and rolling her eyes theatrically, her voice practically dripping with disdain.

"I'm sorry, the what? Are they pirates or something?" Hermione asked, confused as to the relevance of the epithet.

Lily laughed, but it had a harsh edge. "Not pirates, no, but they do certainly think they're bad arse. Arse holes, more like" she said, folding her arms across her chest and looking decidedly annoyed. "They go around playing malicious pranks on everyone, especially the Slytherins, that's the house in green, down at the other end of the hall. They call themselves 'the Marauders' and think it gives them license to go around terrorizing everyone. It's quite childish really."

Hermione let out a thoughtful, distressed hum, not really sure what to make of all of this. If Lily was telling the truth, Harry's dad and his mates were a bunch of bullies. It was an unsettling prospect.

"Oh come on now, Lily," Dorcas interjected. "The Marauders can be a bit annoying, sure, but they're not quite as bad as your making them out to be. And I know you have a soft spot for a certain Slytherin," Hermione eyes widened considerably, "but sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time, the snakes get what they deserve."

It seemed the traditional house rivalries were as alive and well as ever in this time, Hermione noted. But who, she wondered, was this Slytherin friend of Lily's? She'd be shocked if inter-house friendships between Gryffindor's and Slytherins were any more common in the 1970's than they would be in the 1990's, so if Lily was friends with a Slytherin it had to be something of an unusual relationship.

Dorcas, though, was still talking. "Remus is a nice enough bloke, you have to admit that," the blonde was saying, and Lily nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "And Peter is just a bit of an idiot, he can't help that." Lily snorted, and then appeared somewhat guilty for having done so.

"Which ones are they?" Hermione asked, studying the group of boys curiously as they talked and laughed together.

"Peter Pettigrew is the dumpy looking blonde, and Remus Lupin is the sandy haired one," Dorcas pointed out helpfully.

"Remus Lupin?" Hermione almost choked again, but, thankfully managed to reign in her reaction to the degree that her eyes only bugged out with shock in a highly unflattering manner; a moderate improvement.

Her extremely tired, extremely competent Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had been friends with Harry's father. The shocking revelations she was gleaning from this evening just continued to pile up. Perhaps, Hermione realized suddenly, she hadn't imagined all the weird looks Lupin had been giving her in the 1990's. It seemed her Professor had had a reason after all, though of course Hermione hadn't been able to conceive of it at the time.

"Weird name, yeah," Dorcas said offhandedly in response to Hermione's face, which was a bit rich coming from someone named Dorcas, but Hermione supposed she could allow it. Her own name wasn't exactly run of the mill.

Peter Pettigrew, there was yet another name Hermione recognized, and yet another person from this time who would meet a horribly nasty end. Hermione observed the blonde boy sadly, watching as he laughed nervously with his friends. He looked a bit out of place among them, and he looked as if he knew it too, seeming quite self-conscious and unsure of himself.

"Who's that next to Remus," Hermione asked finally, referring to the last of the group who was unknown to her, a tall boy with gray eyes and black hair, sandwiched in between Remus and James. His hair was the same dark, black as Harry and James', but considerably smoother than either Potter's. Actually, Hermione thought, he was quite good looking. So who was this last of the Marauders then?

"That's Sirius Black," Lily supplied, and Hermione blanched, suddenly overcome with horror and revulsion as she watched the four boys talking and laughing together, their interaction instantly transformed into a horrific, macabre, tableau.

That was Sirius Black? The future Death Eater and mass murderer? Over there laughing and palling it up with Peter Pettigrew, his future murder victim, her future (or was it former?) Professor, and her best friend's father? It was utterly horrifying. She'd known Black had been a Gryffindor, which was bad enough, but she certainly hadn't expected this. She should have, of course, Hermione berated herself, for it was entirely obvious in retrospect. She had known Black, Peter Pettigrew and James Potter were all third year Gryffindor's, and, it followed, dorm mates as well. It only made sense that they were friends. Hermione supposed that the prospect had just been so horrific and anathema to her that, stupidly, it hadn't even occurred to her despite the logic of it.

She observed the boys with new eyes now, Black in particular. In contrary to the wanted posters of him which had been plastered all over the wizarding world in 1993, she found this younger version of Black hardly looked deranged. Far from it, in fact, though he did seem to regress into a state of apparent melancholy when his friends weren't looking, and he was briefly left to himself. It didn't appear to Hermione that Black was merely pasting on a mask of happiness for the benefit of his friends, he seemed genuinely joyful and invigorated when he was interacting with James Potter and the others, but he fell into a kind of sad listlessness when he wasn't engaging with them. Black almost had an air of needing to be distracted from something, but whatever that might be Hermione couldn't fathom. His behavior was very curious, she thought with a frown. She really needed to stop staring at him though, before anyone, Godric forbid Black himself, noticed. But Hermione couldn't help but find the last Marauder fascinating, now that she knew who he was.

"You're staring at Black," Lily observed from across the table, arching a thin, judgmental, eyebrow at Hermione and bringing the other witches worries to fruition.

"I'd warn you to be careful with that one," the red head continued. "He may be good looking, but he's a right prat. Him and Potter both, that's the other black haired one next to him, with the glasses." Lily pointed James out to Hermione, quite needlessly, given that he was the spitting image of Harry. Or rather, Hermione supposed, Harry was the spitting image of him. Regardless, she would have known him anywhere as Harry's father, just as she had known Lily immediately for who she was just by her eyes, which, as everyone said, were indeed an exact match for Harry's.

The future Mrs. Potter had crossed her arms over her chest, and was currently engaged in staring disdainfully at the Marauders, the pair of Potter and Black in particular, an air of righteous condemnation clinging to her petite frame. "I've never met two people so self-absorbed and arrogant in my entire life!" she spat, becoming rather worked up, Hermione could see. "They think they're just so funny and clever, but they're actually not. Dorcas is right, Remus and Peter can be okay sometimes," Lily allowed, "but Black and Potter are irredeemable."

"Quite fit though," Mary McDonald volunteered softly, speaking for the first time since her, Lily and Dorcas had arrived. In all honesty, Hermione had almost forgotten she was there. "Lily is just mad because Potter is in love with her, although I don't know why anyone would be mad about that."

Lily sighed heavily. "He's not in love with me Mary, he's merely obsessed. Potter's not sincere, he only flirts with me because he knows it bothers me. That's not a redeeming quality. And you know that's not the only reason I dislike him, it's the pranks as well, as I've said. He's just a mean, small minded, nasty person-"

"So you _really_ don't like Potter, then?" Hermione ventured, cutting Lily's burgeoning rant off at the head.

Lily scoffed, "Hardly!" she said, looking disgusted at the very prospect. "Potter's by far the worst of the Marauders, he's their little ringleader. He's even worse than Black! Honestly though, they're both horrible. If you want my advice, you'd do best to steer well clear of both of them."

"I'll take that into consideration," Hermione said faintly, feeling somewhat stunned at the revelation that not only were Harry's parents not together yet in this time, but that Lily actually seemed to actively dislike James. Strongly. In fact, Hermione thought, dislike many not have been quite a strong enough term for the red head's feelings toward James, given the venomous way in which Lily was presently glaring at her would be husband. Loathing, Hermione decided, might be a much more appropriate label, as disconcerting as that may have been. It was hard for her to reconcile that Harry's parents had ever been anything but utterly in love with each other. But then, she supposed that most people didn't fall madly in love at the age of thirteen. Unless they were Romeo and Juliette, that is, and everyone knew how well that had turned out. Which is to say, not very well at all. Not that Lily and James would meet a much better end than the iconic, doomed, young lovers, Hermione reflected sadly. Maybe that was part of why she was so unnerved by the feelings of animosity that Lily so clearly held for James right now. In just eight years' time both of Harry's parents would be dead. It seemed tragic that the couple should spend any of the short amount of time they had left at odds with each other.

"Do we _have_ to keep talking about Potter and the rest of them though?" Lily griped, tearing Hermione from her melancholy thoughts and bringing her back to the present. So to speak anyway. "It's spoiling my appetite, and I'm sure there are a variety of much more pleasant topics we could discuss."

"Like classes?" Dorcas suggested archly, with an eye roll that Lily either didn't see or chose to ignore.

"Yes exactly," Lily said, smiling good naturedly in the face of her friends ribbing. "What electives are you taking Hermione?"

"Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures and Arithmancy," Hermione supplied promptly, exceedingly grateful for the subject change. As ever, the witch was eager to talk of academics with anyone who was genuinely interested in such things, which Lily clearly was, much to Hermione's delight. She could stew about the various troubling friendship conglomerations and enmity's of her fellow third year Gryffindor's later, when she wasn't surrounded by them.

"Ooooh, I'm in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy as well," Lily squealed excitedly, "and you'll have Dorcas and Mary in Care of Magical Creatures! I'm really excited about Runes, I think they're just fascinating, don't you?"

"Oh yes," Hermione agreed, diving enthusiastically into a discussion of the subject with the red headed witch and her fellow muggleborn. Their conversation turned out to be not only a very welcome distraction for Hermione, but also a highly enjoyable affair on its own merits. Over the next three quarters of an hour, Hermione found herself chatting easily with Lily about a whole spectrum of topics, Dorcas, and, less frequently, Mary, inserting themselves into the thread of conversation here and there. There would surely be times when Hermione's knowledge of the future would complicate and cloud her relationship with Lily, but whatever difficulties might arise, it didn't change the fact that by the end of dinner, Hermione was decidedly under the impression that she and Lily made very natural friends. On a night which had been filled with a great many unpleasant revelations for Hermione, that was one of the few nice ones.


	6. The Complicated Nature of Friendship

_**AN:**_ _Hope you guys are still enjoying this, cheers and review to let me know what you think! Reviews are like coffee, they sustain my soul y'all. We get Sirius Hermione interaction in this one folks!_

* * *

Chapter 6: The Complicated Nature of Friendship

"I heard her whole family got blown up in a magical accident. She was the only survivor."

"Tragic."

"Isn't she staying with that large, scary looking, bloke who's always lurking about on the grounds? The Gamekeeper? Bit weird."

"Maybe they're related. I mean, have you _seen_ her hair?"

"Yeah, she seriously needs to invest in some Sleakeazy's. But I thought her whole family was dead? And isn't she supposed to be muggle born? That's what I heard anyway."

Hermione, who had happened to overhear the entirety of this conversation, mostly due to the fact that it was being conducted in incredibly loud whispers, and because both the participants kept shooting decidedly non-furtive glances in her direction, had had quite enough.

" _For the record,_ " she said shrilly, slamming her books down with a loud thump on the adjacent table to the one which the pair of gossipy magpies were occupying, "I _am_ muggleborn, my family _is_ dead, and I _was_ living with Hagrid over the summer. He happens to be a very nice man, and I would thank you not to be rude about him!"

Hermione topped off this righteous tirade by pinning the two offending Ravenclaw girls with a positively glacial stare, causing them to shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"Er, sorry," one of them said awkwardly. "That was meant to be a private conversation."

"Well then maybe you should have conducted it in private," Lily, who had just slid into the seat next to Hermione, suggested coldly. "Or not at all."

The girls continued to squirm, much to Hermione's vindictive delight, and she and Lily continued to glare.

"Shallow vipers," Lily whispered to her, putting a sympathetic hand on the other witch's shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. "Just try to ignore them."

It was sound advice from her new friend, Hermione knew, but she had been followed by similarly nasty, speculative whispers all day, and at this point it was getting harder and harder to just ignore them. She'd always felt bad for Harry when he'd been the victim of such things, knowing her friend loathed the attention, but she was gaining a whole new kind of sympathy for him today. As she took notes on autopilot, which she felt license to do because she had heard the exact same lecture, verbatim, from Professor Bins not a month earlier (it seemed the ghostly Professor had neglected to update his lesson plan in any way over the course of twenty years), Hermione found herself idly contemplating if she would be able to make it to dinner that night without snapping. She was just playing out various scenarios in her head, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned slowly in her seat, only to come face to face with one Sirius Black, much to her horror.

He gave her a roguish smile, apparently oblivious to the fact that all the color had suddenly drained from her face.

"I like your hair," he informed her with a wink. "I'm Sirius Black, by the way, if no one's told you yet."

"I didn't ask for your opinion of my hair, Mr. Black," Hermione said tightly, not bothering to introduce herself.

"I volunteered it," Sirius said, seeming shocked and taken aback at Hermione's blatant hostility.

"Well don't!" Hermione snapped, spinning around in her seat to face front once more, leaving a gob smacked Sirius Black, who had never been so roundly rejected by a girl so clearly and immediately before in his life, reeling behind her.

"Well that went well," she heard someone say dryly from behind her, Remus, if she hadn't mistaken him out of the corner of her eye.

"Stuff it, Moony," Sirius said tersely, sounding quite put out. The other boy only laughed in response.

Hermione spent the rest of the lesson taking overly detailed notes and aggressively ignoring the presence of the boy behind her. The was made easier by the fact that she was in solidarity with Lily, who was herself aggressively ignoring James Potter, who was sharing the table over from them with Peter Pettigrew and kept attempting to pass her notes.

"Potter, stop it," Liy hissed finally, after angrily flicking away one too many notes with her wand. The lot of them had accumulated in a rather tragic looking pile on the floor at the foot of James' and Peter's desk.

"The two of you are hopeless," Remus laughed, assumedly referring to James and Sirius and their mutual lack of success that afternoon with Lily and Hermione. When she happened to oh so casually glance back at them as her and Lily were gathering up their things to leave, Hermione noted with some distaste that James was pouting and Sirius looked rather surly. Well, she thought, served the pair of them right. As much as she hated to think at all negatively of one of Harry's parents, James had really behaved quite obnoxiously toward Lily that afternoon, and Hermione could understand why the other girl disliked him. He had been incessant in his pestering of the red head all lesson, utterly undeterred by Lily's clear annoyance with him and his antics. Lily was anything but charmed, and Hermione found herself feeling similarly disenchanted despite herself.

"I told you Potter and Black were totally excruciating," Lily muttered to her as they excited the History of Magic classroom, Dorcas and Mary trailing behind them.

"You really told Black off in there Hermione," Dorcas chimed in as she and Mary caught up alongside Hermione and Lily, "I've never seen him look so confused before, the poor bloke," she said with a laugh, tossing her shimmering blonde hair over one shoulder and exchanging a wicked smile with Mary, who seemed less amused by the whole thing.

"I think Sirius was just trying to be nice when he said that about Hermione's hair," the other girl said quietly, eyes glued to the stone floor of the corridor as they walked along.

Dorcas huffed dismissively in response, rolling her own light blue eyes. "Oh come _on_ Mary, lighten up, would you? Black was _trying_ to flirt with her, and he got stone cold shut down. It was hilarious," the blonde witch declared. "And anyway, if you ask me, Black could use a good dose of humility every once in a while. Something to keep the boy humble. The hordes of desperate slags around here panting after him all the time certainly aren't doing anything to restrain his ego. Really, it's quite lucky we've got Hermione here now to keep him in check," she finished, slinging a companionable arm around Hermione's shoulders, much to the muggle born witches shock.

Quite honestly, she wasn't used to finding such easy acceptance among other girls. Lily and Dorcas' friendliness was a far cry from anything she'd ever experienced with Lavender and Parvati back in the 1990's. Hermione did find herself feeling a bit awkward about Mary though. The quiet, dark haired girl was still studying the ground as they walked, her eyes remaining downcast as they drew closer to the Great Hall. Hermione certainly hadn't meant to upset Mary, or cause any kind of tension between her new dorm mates, but she simply couldn't help her reaction to Black.

"I suppose he might've meant well," Hermione allowed, in a concession that was wholly for Mary's benefit, and had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Sirius and whatever actual intent he'd had when he'd made that comment about her hair. Privately, Hermione suspected that Dorcas was probably right and that Black had been trying to flirt with her, which, if true, was utterly surreal and really quite disturbing. She shuddered at the thought. Her statement though, as insincere as it may have been, had prompted Mary to finally look up from the floor and shoot her a tentative smile, so she supposed it had been worth it.

"Black is, erm, quite popular then?" Hermione asked, thinking back to Dorcas' comment about 'hordes of slags'. Surely that must have been an exaggeration, but it certainly did paint a vivid picture.

Lily snorted derisively. "Godric knows why, but yes."

"I think it's mainly down to his classical bone structure," Dorcas said, nodding sagely.

"Yes, to go along with his classically wretched personality," Lily shot back, and Dorcas laughed. "But there's no accounting for taste here at Hogwarts," the red head explained to Hermione. "At least among most of the female population. So that accounts for Potter and Black's inexplicable popularity."

"It's not inexplicable, both of them are fit," Dorcas said bluntly, prompting a nod of agreement from Mary and an uncomfortable frown from Hermione. "Just because they're annoying, don't pretend you can't see it, Lils."

"Stuff it, Dorcas," Lily said primly, breezing past them all into the Great Hall and seating herself at the Gryffindor table with an air of exaggerated dignity.

Hermione, Mary and Dorcas fell into place around her naturally, and it all felt shockingly normal to Hermione, as though she had done it many times before and it was a formed habit, common place and taken for granted. Much to her surprise, it seemed she was falling unexpectedly and easily into place with these girls. It was only her first day as a student in this 1970's version of Hogwarts, but already she felt startlingly more at home than she ever would have thought, at least among Lily and Dorcas. And, she supposed, Mary as well. In a sense it was comforting, of course it was, but it was also undeniably disconcerting. Could she really leave the 90's behind so readily? Were Harry and Ron so easily replaceable?

Hermione missed the boys fiercely, and she knew that she would as long as she was away from them, trapped here by herself in the 1970's. They were her best friends, and they'd always be in her heart, even if she never got to reunite with them in person. The budding friendships she was developing with her new, 1970's dorm mates, no matter what they might grow into, would never be able to replicate or replace what her friendships with Harry and Ron were. She'd been through so much with those two, and she had such an incredibly deep love for both boys, though of course she never would have said that to either of their faces. Ron would have called her a hopelessly silly girl, and told her not to be so disgustingly mushy, and Harry probably would have just stood there without saying anything and blushed awkwardly. Hermione smiled sadly. They were each so tragically emotionally stunted in their own unique ways, she thought with affection.

"Hermione?" Lily asked cautiously, breaking into the other witches' thoughts. "Are you alright?"

Hermione surfaced from her reminiscences to find Lily, Dorcas and Mary all staring at her with various degrees of concern. Lily's green eyes were scrunched slightly in worry, and Hermione found that suddenly she could scarcely bring herself to look away from them, seeing Harry reflected in them at that moment more strongly than ever.

"I'm fine," Hermione assured everyone, shaking her head slightly to clear it of the fog of memories which had briefly overtaken it. She couldn't make a habit of getting lost like that, she chided herself, no matter how easy or tempting it was to indulge in nostalgia and try to pretend she was still back in 1993 with Harry and Ron. She was here in the 1970's now, and she very much needed to keep her wits about her. Lily and the other Gryffindor girls had all been very nice so far, astoundingly really, but Hermione still needed to be careful with them. It was all well and good that they were making her feel so unexpectedly at home, but she couldn't let that lull her into a false sense of complacency. She could be friends with them, and Hermione desperately did want that, but she would always have to be on guard about how much she revealed, or she'd be putting all of them in incredible danger. Hermione sighed, now feeling quite a bit bleaker than when she had first sat down to dinner. She supposed that she could only ignore the dire reality of her circumstances for so long before the weight of she was baring reasserted itself. Nevertheless, Hermione had to push on, and so she pushed her hair back, pasting on a fragile smile for the benefit of her new friends. "Just disappeared for a bit, that's all," she said lightly. "I'm fine."

Dorcas and Mary both nodded, but Lily, it seemed, wasn't so easily put off. The red head tilted her head thoughtfully, letting out a skeptical hum. Her green eyes were still fixed firmly on Hermione, narrowed slightly in assessment. Unlike Mary and Dorcas, Lily's concern for Hermione seemed not to have been fully vanquished by the other witch's reassurances, which despite her best efforts, were evidently somewhat unconvincing. At least to Lily. Hermione found herself pinned by the worried and penetrating stare of her new green eyed friend, long after Mary and Dorcas had gone back to their food. Eventually, just when Hermione was beginning to feel quite uneasy under her gaze, Lily tore her eyes away, letting out one last thoughtful 'hmm', but apparently willing to let the matter drop.

The conversation began to flow naturally again after that, the girls asking Hermione question after question about her first day; what she had thought of her classes, how she liked the castle so far, and what students from other houses she'd had notable interactions with. For the rest of dinner though, in the background of the conversation, and unnoticed by either Mary or Dorcas, Lily continued to periodically shoot Hermione covertly worried looks. Hermione didn't comment, but made a mental note that she would have to be especially careful with the redhead. In stark contrast to her son, Lily appeared to be highly emotionally attuned to others, and almost frighteningly perceptive.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione woke feeling apprehensive and somewhat disoriented. Yesterday, and the events of the Welcoming Feast the evening before, had been such incredibly surreal experiences for her, perhaps even rivaling her first introduction to the wizarding world two years ago. She felt as though she was operating in a bizarre dreamscape in which the world she was inhabiting was quite familiar to her in many ways, but was populated by almost entirely different actors, or younger, altered versions of people she had known before from her own world. She was waking up to find herself in a disconcertingly warped version of reality. Even her dorm room, the exact same one in which she had slept in the 1990's, felt slightly off, and yet simultaneously virtually unchanged. The people with whom she was sharing a dorm were, of course, entirely different in this case, and not just younger versions of familiar faces.

Eyeing her new 1970's dorm mates, all three of which were still peacefully asleep at that moment (it was still quite early, after all, only half past five), Hermione didn't find herself grieving the loss of Lavender and Parvati all that much. Lily, Dorcas and Mary were certainly a marked improvement over those two, she thought. However blunt and uncharitable an assessment that may have been, Hermione couldn't help but believe whole heartedly in the veracity of it. Having lost any hope of reclaiming sleep at this point, Hermione slipped out of bed, making an effort not to rouse her still slumbering dorm mates. No reason to disrupt their sleep just because the thoughts running madly about all through Hermione's mind were too disruptive to allow her any. Rummaging through her newly acquired school trunk as quietly as possible, Hermione grabbed a towel and her bath kit, thinking an early morning shower might go some way towards clearing her head a bit. And even if it didn't, she reasoned, at least she would be clean.

Switching on the hot water tap once in the bathroom, Hermione was greeted to a considerably disheartening display. The shower head gurgled alarmingly, before halfheartedly spurting out a steam of water. It then seemed to give up all together, its flow of water subsiding into a pathetic, lukewarm dribble. Hermione sighed heavily, switching the tap back off and putting the poor thing out of its misery. It seemed that just as in the 1990's, Hogwarts' pipes had an unfortunate tendency to act up sometimes. This was perhaps aggravated by the fact that the Hogwarts pipes also sometimes served as passage for a terrifying, giant, snake monster, Hermione thought wryly. She shuffled across the room, opting to make her attempt at a shower in a different, hopefully more favored, stall.

From what Percy said, this kind of trouble never occurred in the Prefects bathroom, Hermione thought huffily as she tried yet another tap, her third now. She would have never admitted it out loud to anyone, but that legendary bathroom was one of the reasons she wanted to make Prefect in the first place. It wasn't the prime reason, of course, Hermione had a long list of considerably more righteous and practical reasons for wanting to be a Hogwarts Prefect, but it _would_ be a tantalizing bonus of a prestigious and noble post. Privately, Hermione was very interested in the promised luxuries of the famed Prefects Bath. She thought longingly of such things, standing as she currently was under the weak, tepid, spray that, sadly, amounted to the best water pressure and temperature combination she had been able to find that morning.

Although she couldn't quite shampoo her hair on autopilot (dealing with her curls always necessitated at least some degree of care and attention), as she lathered, the majority of Hermione's mind was occupied with fretting over the coming day. The third year Gryffindors were scheduled for Transfiguration first thing that morning, followed immediately by Double Potions; a challenging combination which Hermione would normally be eager to tackle, but which, for the first time, she found herself feeling slightly apprehensive about. This was the 1970's, not the 1990's, and she wasn't quite sure what to expect from _any_ of her classes this time around, much less ones that took place in combination with the Slytherins, as the coming Double Potions lesson would. Any situation where Gryffindors and Slytherins were unwillingly thrown together was a potentially dangerous one, and from what Hermione had seen so far, this axiom was just as true in the 1970's as it had been in the 1990's, perhaps even more so.

Maybe though, Hermione thought hopefully, this Professor Slughorn that Lily had been telling her about would be more adept at minimizing the vicious house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin than Snape had been. If anything, Snape had seemed to almost revel in exploiting the volatile dynamics between members of differing houses, and all the better if he could manipulate the situation in such a way that the outcome favored his own house. Lily had assured her that Slughorn was passably decent, but however fitting his name may have been for a potions Professor, the man was still head of Slytherin House, and in Hermione's experience that came with an inevitable amount of bias towards one's own students. Even McGonagall, as head of Gryffindor, was guilty of that, especially when it came to quidditch. Hermione herself was at an utter loss as to understand why otherwise rational people like Professor McGonagall got so worked up about quidditch, but she supposed her own lack of understanding didn't negate the undeniable passion the sport stirred in others.

It was hardly the time to be contemplating the perplexingly mass appeal of quidditch though, Hermione decided as she rinsed the conditioner from her hair, having left the product in for exactly the requisite amount of time its bottle informed her it needed to take effect. After all, she had much more important things to agonize over at the moment, like whether or not a sharp eyed Professor McGonagall would immediately spot her as an imposter in Transfiguration later that morning, and have her summarily thrown out of the school. Shutting off the tap and bringing an end to what had, on the whole, been a rather disappointing shower, and one which had decidedly failed to clear her head, Hermione sighed. Wrapping her hair up in a towel and glumly donning her robe, it occurred to the young witch that she'd been doing quite a lot of heavy, despondent, sighing since arriving in the 1970's. She'd really better learn to stop, Hermione told herself sternly, or she'd develop a reputation as a kind of living Moaning Myrtle, which was definitely not something she wanted to cultivate, no offense to Myrtle.

Her head may not have been any clearer as a result of her early morning excursion to the bath, but as Hermione made her way back to her dorm, unmet by anyone, she could at least appreciate privacy and quiet this morning had afforded her. Being alone with her thoughts, however uneasy company they may have made, gave her time to at least attempt to organize them, and to strategize about the coming day. Not that Hermione had managed to arrive at any sort of coherent strategy beyond 'keep your head down and just get through it', but she'd generously chosen to award herself points for trying.

She'd made it through the previous day employing just such a strategy, and although her first day of classes had been supremely awful in many respects, she had come out on the other side of it relatively unscathed, and even having learned a few things. For instance, Hermione had made the unfortunate discovery that it was significantly harder to stay focused on academics when one was being gawped at all day like an exotic animal on display in the zoo. Not to mention the frustration which came with being followed by a constant stream of whispers as her fellow students speculated all sorts of nasty and outlandish things about her, none of which were quite as outlandish as the truth, but many of which were shockingly rude. Then there had been her extensive, forced proximity to Sirius Black, the stress of which she was sure was going to eventually give her an ulcer.

Though Hermione hadn't had to endure much direct interaction with Black, beyond replying to that inane comment he had made about her hair, his mere presence in practically all her classes had had her consistently on edge all day. Despite considerable effort on Hermione's part, Black made himself very hard to ignore. He was constantly drawing attention to himself; interjecting his own, what he clearly thought was quite witty, commentary into their Professors' lectures and disrupting everyone by talking and laughing loudly with his friends. He also seemed to be incapable of sitting still for long periods of time, shifting about with positively maddening frequency. Hermione had longed many times throughout the day to be able to turn around in her seat and tell him to _shut up_ so she could concentrate on something, anything else besides Black. Preferably the Professor and their lesson. In the end, she had settled for glaring heatedly at him out of the corner of her eye and huffing every time he did something particularly irritating, much to the amusement of Lily and Dorcas, and the mild consternation of Mary, who seemed to find Black's antics endearing for some reason.

Nudging open the door to the third year Gryffindor girls' dorm, Hermione was greeted by the sight of a sleepy looking Lily. Her new friend was sitting up in bed, yawning and rubbing at a mussed head of hair. Mary and Dorcas were still sleeping, the brunette ensconced in her blankets and curled up in a small, self-contained ball, while the blonde witch was sprawled messily on top of her covers, limbs flung about every which way.

"Hey," Lily said softly, her greeting impressively intelligible for someone who was also engaged in yawning massively. "Have you been up long? What time is it?"

"Just after six," Hermione whispered. "And not long, no. Just had a shower."

Lily squinted at her. "How was the water pressure?" she asked lowly, voice tinged with suspicion.

"Abysmal," Hermione replied flatly, and Lily groaned, falling back onto her pillows with a muted thump.

"Ugh, I knew it!" Lily griped. "It's always shit in the beginning of the year for some reason. Honestly, it's about the worst thing about coming back to school. They'll sort it out eventually though, they always do."

Hermione hummed noncommittally, selecting a sweater for the day and wondering idly if she'd eventually be able to pull it together and sort out _her_ life here, trapped as she was now in the 1970's. At that moment, she was holding out more hope for the water pressure situation.

* * *

Transfiguration turned out to be almost the exact opposite of the frightening ordeal which Hermione had so been dreading. The 1970's version of Professor McGonagall was as brisk and no nonsense as ever. Blessedly, the black haired Professor chose not to comment at all on Hermione's presence, treating her like any other student, and addressing her only when she volunteered the answer to a question, rewarding her correct response with a sharp nod and a brief, approving smile. Despite the irrational fears which had been plaguing Hermione, her Transfiguration Professor was not, it happened, endowed with the prescient ability to detect her as an interloper from the future. For Hermione, feeling conspicuously out of place and consistently out of sorts since she had arrived in the 1970's, the familiar strict demeanor of Professor McGonagall was a pleasant bit of constancy stretching across the decades. On the whole, the effect of Transfiguration was quite comforting, and Hermione found she was able to immerse herself fully in the lesson in a way she hadn't been able to in any of the classes she had attended the day before. In the face of the numerous distractions Hermione was battling, Professor McGonagall still had a way of commanding attention.

Even Sirius Black and James Potter were taking diligent notes. They listened with rapt attention as McGonagall expanded on the finer details of animagi transformation, something they'd neglected to do in any of the classes the Gryffindor's had attended yesterday, at least that Hermione had seen. From what she could tell, Remus was by far the most studious of the so called 'Marauders', which made sense given his future occupation as a Professor. Lily confirmed her assessment, though she did admit, begrudgingly, that Black and Potter were usually in the running for top of the class.

"And they hardly study!" Lily complained as they headed to Potions, shaking her head. "It's completely infuriating! They manage to do so well and they expend so little effort!"

Folding her arms across her chest in order to combat the chill of the dungeons, Hermione entered the potions classroom trepidatiously, Lily at her side.

The redhead was craning her neck, looking around for someone, and she smiled when she spotted them, giving a little wave to a pale, moody looking boy wearing Slytherin robes. This must be Lily's Slytherin friend that Hermione had heard about, she thought, eyeing him with interest.

Lily grabbed her hand, tugging her in the direction of the Slytherin, who appeared considerably less enthused to see Lily than Lily was to see him. Though perhaps, Hermione reflected, he was just masking his true emotions; it would have been typically Slytherin of him. And, after all, it certainly wouldn't help his popularity among his own housemates if he were to be seen mixing enthusiastically with a muggle born Gryffindor. The boy's subdued manner in the face of Lily's infectious exuberance may have been merely strategic, Hermione reasoned. But that was a generous interpretation, and it didn't change the fact that, to her mind, he was behaving rudely toward Lily when they were supposed to be friends. Whatever the reason for the boy's attitude, she couldn't help but find it off putting.

"Come on, Hermione, there's someone I really want you to meet!" Lily was saying excitedly, dragging her to a stop before her Slytherin friend, who was eyeing Hermione like a threat which he had not yet had time to properly evaluate.

"Hermione, this is my good friend Severus Snape," Lily announced. "And Sev, this is my new friend Hermione Granger."

Hermione, frozen with disbelief in the wake of such an unexpected revelation, was incapable of saying anything in response to Lily's introduction of her friend as the absolute last person she had expected him to turn out to be. Though looking at him, Hermione could now clearly see the resemblance to an adult Professor Snape in the boy. The lank, greasy hair, the sallow skin, the dark eyes; the general unpleasant demeanor. It all fit. Hermione had known that Snape would be at Hogwarts as a student in this time. She'd calculated that he was about the right age, even if years of bitterness had made him appear a bit older than he was in her time. But she hadn't known he would be in their year, and she certainly hadn't known that he would be friends with Harry's mother. That was something she never could have anticipated. If he had truly been friends with Lily, how was it possible that he had come to hate Harry with such a vengeance, Hermione wondered? She simply didn't know what to make of it. She was stunned. An awkward silence, facilitated by Hermione's shock and Snape's apparent unfriendliness, had begun to drag on uncomfortably. Lily though, was still looking between the two newly introduced teenagers with expectant, hopeful eyes.

"Pleasure," Snape said finally, in a tone that made it clear to Hermione that his sentiments were the exact opposite.

"Er, likewise," Hermione said haltingly. "Nice to meet you Severus."

His name felt weird and inappropriate on her tongue as she formed it, and she could scarcely move it past her lips.

"Severus is something of a Potions prodigy," Lily explained proudly. "This is his best class."

"Lily flatters me," Snape cut in hastily, shooting the redhead a quelling look. Despite the young Snape's protestations though, Hermione had no doubt that what Lily said was true. She could fault the Snape she had known for many things, but the man's potion making ability was not one of them. His teaching methods, on the other hand, were another matter altogether. Hermione, taking a reluctant seat at a table that included both Lily and Snape, was rather curious to see how Slughorn differed from Snape in his instruction method.

A great deal, as it turned out, she discovered over the course of Double Potions that afternoon. Slughorn was an overly large man with a booming voice and smarmy, ingratiating manner. He seemed to care far less about people's house affiliations than he did about their families' social and political connections, Hermione observed. She watched with disdain as he lavished attention on both Black and Potter, while completely ignoring Remus and Peter, the later of whom was having quite a bit of trouble with his potion, and surely could have used correction from Slughorn. Not that the man noticed, gliding right past Peter without so much as a glance to spare for him or the disaster percolating in his cauldron. Instead, he made a beeline for Black and Potter, jumping right into pestering a deeply annoyed looking Sirius with questions about his family. It didn't seem like a topic the Black Heir was very keen to discuss, and he became visibly more annoyed as the conversation progressed, flinging potions ingredients about all too aggressively, and full on glaring at Slughorn by the end of it. It was this vicious glare of Black's, along with the naked hostility he had begun radiating towards their Professor, which seemed to finally get through to Slughorn and put him off. He waddled away, muttering something about lost causes and perhaps having more luck with the younger Black, Sirius' brother.

James Potter had been considerably politer to Slughorn when questioned about his family than Black had been (apparently his parents, Harry's grandparents, were doing quite well and enjoying retirement), but he still seemed happy to see Slughorn go. Once the Potion's Master had moved on from them, Potter slapped Sirius compainably on the back, saying something to him that Hermione couldn't make out, but which prompted Black to nod, and seemed to calm him down somewhat. Slughorn, meanwhile, had inserted himself into a discussion between a pair of Slytherin siblings, a boy and a girl with the last name Carrow, who were a great deal more receptive to his attention than either Black or Potter had been.

Slughorn clearly didn't totally discount people outside of the pureblood set though, Hermione could see. He was quite warm towards both Lily and Snape, each of whom, it was clear from Hermione's vantage point sitting next to them, excelled at potions. Hermione wasn't sure of Snape's blood status, he was at least a half blood, she assumed, but Lily's being a muggle born certainly didn't stop Slughorn from fawning over her. So it seemed that in the absence of familial political and social clout, talent did count for something with her new Potions Professor. He seemed quite pleased with Hermione's execution of the brew they had been assigned for the day, glancing between her and Lily and their potions and proclaiming loudly that, "Talented muggleborns must flock together!" a declaration which Hermione wasn't sure she was quite as flattered by as the man had intended. She exchanged a look with Lily, who shrugged and gave a little eye roll in response to Slughorn's comment.

There were a few eruptions of inter house sniping between various Gryffindors and Slytherins throughout the lesson, but Slughorn, to his credit, tamped down on them all rather quickly and effectively. The resulting environment was one that, while a little tense, was relatively drama free. It was hardly the open war zone between houses which Hermione had feared. Or, if it was a war, it was of the cold variety at the moment. In fact, if one took into account the fact that Lily and Snape were voluntarily sitting together, and that members of both houses were united in their complaints about the smell emanating from Peter Pettigrew's cauldron, it could even be considered a détente, Hermione mused.

The discovery of the friendship between Lily and Severus Snape had been, by far, the most jarring moment of the class for her. She spent the entire rest of the day trying to make sense of this perplexing relationship in the context of what she knew about the 1970's, and given what she knew of the future. Hermione couldn't help but feel that Lily would be incredibly hurt by the way her so called friend would later treat her son. She reasoned that this perhaps had more to do with James Potter, and Harry's uncanny resemblance to him, than it did to do with Lily. Snape, when he hadn't been working on his potion or hunched protectively over his text book scribbling secret notes in the margins, had spent a great deal of the lesson shooting furtive, nasty looks at the table which James and Sirius were sharing. He seemed to hate them even more than Lily did, if such a thing were possible, and Hermione speculated that a mutual dislike of the Marauders, particularly of Black and Potter, may have been a bonding factor for the unusual pair of friends.

In Hermione's opinion, however, Snape's evident dislike of James was absolutely no excuse for the way he had treated Harry in her own time, especially given that she now knew he had been good friends with Lily. And they must have been good friends if Snape was openly sitting and talking with Lily in front of other Slytherins, albeit all with a decidedly unfortunate attitude. Although, judging by how he had acted as an adult, Hermione supposed it was possible Snape's attitude problem had nothing to do with self-consciousness over associating with a muggle born in front of his housemates, and everything to do with his unpleasant, core personality. The muggle born witch left Double Potions feeling quite rattled. For Lily's sake, she had been cordial with Snape for the duration of the lesson, a process she had found to be, frankly, exhausting. It was clear that Lily desperately wanted them to get along though, and Hermione hadn't wanted to hurt her new friend's feelings by being unnecessarily rude right away (not that Snape seemed to have any compunctions about such things), so she had done her best to put aside her negative preconceptions of the Slytherin, at least for a couple of hours.

Exiting Potions, Hermione got the distinct impression that neither Mary nor Dorcas liked Snape very much. She suspected that Lily's mistaken assumption that she had no experience with Hogwart's house politics had instilled some hope in the other girl that she might be more open to the Slytherin than their dorm mates. Little did Lily know that Hermione had more reason to be biased against the man (boy, as he currently was) than anyone did. So now, along with the myriad of other problems Hermione was facing, she was left to wonder how on earth she was going to negotiate her evolving friendship with Lily, while also dealing with the redhead's inexplicable friendship with Severus Snape. So flummoxed was Hermione by this development that it had her contemplating if she had fallen not just back in time, but into some sort of bizarre, alternative universe as well.

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 _ **AN:**_ _reviews are life y'all Also, my wisdom tooth is infected so I'm in a lot of pain and can't even move my jaw, much less eat, so I could really use some cheering up!_


	7. The Necessity of Compartmentalization

_AN: Sorry it's been so long since I posted! Hope you enjoy this even if it's not a super long chapter!_

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Chapter 7: The Necessity of Compartmentalization

It was truly extraordinary, Hermione reflected, how, simply given some time, humans were capable of adjusting to even the most unusual and unbelievable of circumstances. Her parents, for example, had managed to accept the fact that she was a witch relatively quickly, despite some initial confusion and disbelief upon finding out that their daughter possessed magical powers. After all, looking back at incidents from Hermione's childhood, it had made a funny kind of sense to them, and in the end, her parents had been able to come to terms with what she was. As muggles, they were far from fully integrated in the wizarding society, existing more on the periphery of it, with Hermione serving as their sole connection to a world they didn't quite understand. But over the last few years her mum and dad had slowly grown used to, if not entirely comfortable, with her status as a witch and all that came with it. Hermione pondered that maybe she was meant to have a similar destiny for as long as she remained trapped in the past; able to adjust to things with time, but never fully integrated, never entirely comfortable.

It was now a few weeks into her confusing, whirl-wind of a new life in the 1970's, and the displaced witch was finding that, in spite of her own expectations, she was beginning to acclimate to her new environment. Existing in the Hogwarts of the 1970's as a 90's witch was undoubtedly a potential minefield, but Hermione thought that she'd so far avoided causing any majorly catastrophic incidents. Of course, it was quite possible that she'd inadvertently set something life altering into motion through a seemingly insignificant action or interaction, and that she just wasn't aware of it yet. But if she dwelled on such ominous possibilities, however likely they may have been, Hermione was sure she'd go positively mad. So, in the interest of the preservation of her own sanity, she chose to focus her energies elsewhere. Currently, she was huddled in the cavernous, Hogwarts library with Lily, penning a History of Magic essay.

In a lapse of her normally stringent focus when it came to studying, Hermione found herself uncharacteristically distracted by the nearby presence of Remus Lupin. The young version of her former (future?) Professor was sitting a couple of tables away from her and Lily, bent over a long sheet of parchment and deliberately scratching out an essay of his own. Somewhat unusually for the boy, he was by himself; unaccompanied by either James Potter, Sirius Black or Peter Pettigrew. Since arriving in the 1970's, Hermione had observed that it was very rare to see one of the Marauders in isolation from their cohort. The boys usually traveled together as a riotous foursome, or were at least seen in pairs. James, Sirius and Remus seemed particularly inseparable, if not unhealthily codependent, though Hermione had seen that Pettigrew did sometimes get left behind a bit.

"A Marauder spotted alone in the wild," Lily whispered, following Hermione's line of sight. The red head had adopted a decent approximation of the voice of a typical BBC nature documentary narrator. "An unusual occurrence indeed."

Lily tilted her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should invite the lone wolf to join us, separated from his usual pack as he is?"

Hermione shifted nervously in her seat. She'd yet to really interact much with Remus, as she tended to avoid the Marauders as much as she possibly could, just as a matter of course. She might have been tempted to approach James, but she'd grown quite close to Lily in the short time she'd been in the 1970's, and the other girl's visceral dislike of the boy was something of a deterrent for her. Not to mention, he looked painfully like Harry in such a way that it almost hurt Hermione physically to even look at him sometimes. The greatest deterrent of all when it came to approaching James Potter, of course, for Hermione at least, was the fact that he and Sirius Black were constantly glued to each other's sides. It was unsettling to her how clearly close the two of them were, knowing what she did of the future. They behaved like brothers. It was mystifying.

Through the course of Hermione's careful observation of Black (it was _not_ problematically obsessive, no matter what Lily implied, it was _practical_ , she insisted vehemently to herself), she had yet to see him interact at all with his actual brother, Regulus, whom she had seen sorted into Slytherin a few weeks ago. Of course, being in different years, as well as different houses, the Black boys weren't naturally thrown together much at school. Still, from what Hermione had observed previously, most siblings who weren't in the same house at Hogwarts still made efforts to seek each other out. Parvati and Padma Patil had managed to stay quite close despite their differing houses, much to Lavender Brown's poorly hidden jealousy and frustration any time the twins spent time together, and she was left the odd one out. Lavender may have been Parvati's best friend in Gryffindor, but it seemed it was hard to compete with the bond between a pair of twins.

Sirius and Regulus Black, in contrast to the Patil twins, had made no such efforts to stay close to each other (if they had ever been close in the first place). They spent no time whatsoever together, at least not that Hermione had seen. Indeed, they seemed to studiously avoid each other and seemed quite determined to ignore each other's general existences whenever they possibly could. Even when the Marauders engaged in confrontations with the Slytherins, an all too common occurrence, Sirius ignored Regulus if he happened to be there, and the other Marauders were seemingly content to follow Black's lead when it came to his little brother, leaving Regulus alone as well. The brothers appeared to be united in a mutual, unspoken, agreement to avoid any and all interaction with each other. If Hermione hadn't known what she did about Sirius and the terrible things he would come to do, she would have found the state of the Black brother's relationship quite sad.

She'd never had siblings herself, and with her parents so busy with their budding dental practice when she had been little, her childhood had been lonely at times. In her worst moments, feeling isolated and friendless at primary school, and then later, at the start of her first Hogwart's term, before she'd become friends with Harry and Ron, Hermione had often secretly wished for a sibling. She'd seen the unquestionably deep love the Weasley siblings had for each other, even if they did bicker and fight constantly, and she envied easy bond between them. It seemed a pity and a waste to her that there were siblings who didn't share such bonds, or if they once had, that those bonds had disintegrated. But she supposed familial relationships were inevitably complicated. Even the Weasley's had their moments, surely. And then, of course, there was Lily and Petunia. Lily didn't talk about her older sister much, but from the little she did say, Hermione got the idea that the relationship between the sisters was already quite fraught.

"Hermione? Hello?" Lily was leaning forward in her seat, waving a hand in front of her face to get her attention. Hermione shook her head, scolding herself inwardly. She'd drifted off from the present again. She hadn't meant to do that.

"Sorry, Lily, what?" she inquired, smiling apologetically over not having heard her friend the first time

"Remus? Should we invite him to join us?" Lily asked her expectantly. "He looks a bit lonely over there," she trailed off, eyeing the lone Marauder speculatively.

"Oh, er, I dunno, Lily," Hermione protested, feeling unsure.

"Come on, Hermione!" Lily cajoled. "Remus is a very nice boy, I assure you. Especially when he's not among certain unpleasant company," she wrinkled her nose cutely, no doubt thinking of James, Sirius and Peter. "And he's quite brainy, so he makes a good study mate. Much better than Dorcas, she always wants to gossip."

"Oh, alright," Hermione relented, with a slight laugh for how easily Lily had won her over. Harry's mother really was a force to be reckoned with. "You've convinced me! But you can be the one to invite him over, I've never even spoken to him I don't think."

Lily winked at her. "Naturally." She hopped up out of her seat with a smile. "I will gladly be the facilitator of this little, impromptu study session. My idea, after all," she said airily, flipping her hair and flouncing off in the direction of Remus' table.

The quietest Marauder remained hunched over his sheet of parchment, but he'd stopped writing, having gone peculiarly still sometime over the course of Lily and Hermione's conversation about him. It was almost as if Remus had been able to hear them, but was attempting to act as though he hadn't. But that was ridiculous, of course, Hermione dismissed out of hand. Her and Lily hadn't been speaking that loudly. In point of fact, they'd been whispering. There was no way Remus would have been able to hear them from where he was sitting; he was practically all the way across the room from their table. Perhaps, Hermione thought practically, Remus had just been able to sense that they had been talking about him. People had a certain way of picking up on it when they were the object of a conversation. It was sort of intuitive.

After a confident march across the room, Lily had arrived at Remus's table; a red head on a mission. She now appeared to be doing her utmost best to convince Remus to join them. At one point, she gestured at Hermione, who did her part to seem at least somewhat encouraging by giving a tentative, little wave when Remus looked her way. Hermione could see that Lily was winning the boy over, and how could she not be, smiling effervescently at him as she was, in that particular dazzling way she had. Hermione suspected that, when it was being deployed strategically, as it undoubtedly was now, that smile of Lily's had the power to convince people to do a great many things which they may have been previously reluctant about. She herself had personal experience with the effects of that smile and she had only known Lily for a few weeks. In any case, it seemed to be working quite efficiently on Remus, who was nodding agreeably at Lily, and had begun gathering up his study materials, stowing them in a considerably overburdened looking book bag. It bore a striking resemblance to the state of Hermione's own book bag, which, although new, had already begun deteriorating from having been pushed to its absolute limit. Looking at the strained seams of the future Professor's book bag, Hermione couldn't help but feel that perhaps Lily was right, and that her and Remus would get along quite handily. But maybe that was what made her so apprehensive to make his acquaintance.

Lily was heading back to their table now, a bemused looking Remus following behind her.

"Hermione, this is Remus. Remus; Hermione," Lily introduced needlessly once they had arrived. Hermione and Remus certainly knew who each other were already, but it was true that they had never had a conservation before, or been formally introduced. At least not in the 1970's . They exchanged a pair of awkward waves.

"Hermione. That's taken from one of Shakespeare's plays, isn't it?" Remus asked, taking the seat across from her and busying himself with arranging his books and papers.

Hermione lit up with delight at his unexpected observation. "Yes!" she said eagerly. "Do you know of him?" There weren't many people in the wizarding world who had heard of the famous muggle author, much less were familiar enough with his work to comment on the origins of her name.

"Of course," Remus said quickly. "He was a brilliant author."

Hermione smiled enthusiastically at Remus, in total agreement with his sentiment. Despite her reservations about potentially forming a friendship with the Marauder, she was undeniably happy to have found someone besides Lily with whom she could discuss muggle literature. Said red headed girl was now looking pointedly satisfied, seemingly quite chuffed with herself for having orchestrated what was proving to be a successful endeavor.

"And your name," Hermione ventured. "That's taken from the Roman legend, correct? About the little boys nursed by the she-wolf, who go on to found Rome? Remus was one of them, wasn't he?"

Remus nodded, grimacing a bit for some reason. "Yes," he confirmed, no longer looking at the girls, but staring instead at the dull, scratched surface of the library table, drumming his fingers on it agitatedly. "Turned out to be a bit of an unhappy coincidence, that, but-" he trailed off suddenly, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Never mind," he finished abruptly, seeming quite out of sorts all of a sudden.

Hermione and Lily shared a perplexed look, turning in unison to frown at Remus with twin moues of puzzled concern. He fidgeted uncomfortably under their stares. Although it wasn't the girls' intention, it was quite intimidating for a young man who felt he may have already said too much. He knew Lily Evans to be whip smart and perceptive, and from what he had gathered so far, the same could also be said of Hermione Granger, their unexpected transfer student with the mysteriously tragic past. It was no wonder her and Lily had become such good friends already, the two of them were scarily alike, though Lily lacked any sort of tragic past, at least as far as Remus knew. He sighed internally, pasting on a strained smile and quickly set about changing the subject from that of unfortunately prophetic names to the much more benignly academic one of their current Charms assignment.

Despite that bit of initial awkwardness, which they managed to brush over relatively quickly, it was quite the pleasant and productive afternoon for Hermione, Lily and Remus. The three of them studied peaceably together for the next few hours, occasionally engaging in conversation and asking each other relevant questions, but mostly content to focus on their work. Hermione actually found it to be remarkably soothing. Studying (almost) always had a calming effect on her, and she was finding that both Lily and Remus were excellent companions for it. Perhaps she had been overly cautious in her reluctance to spend time with this young, 1970's version of her future Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. Just as with Lily, she'd never be able to be completely open and at ease with Remus, but that was true of everyone she was inhabiting the past with, she reasoned. Just because she had known him in the future didn't _necessarily_ make Remus any more dangerous to associate with in the past than anyone else. It's not as though she'd even had all that much interaction with him in the 1990's. He'd been her Professor for less than a month. It had been enough time for Hermione to develop an appreciation of him and his teaching methods, which were in stark contrast to her previous, considerably ineffectual instruction in the subject of Defense Against the Dark Arts, but not enough time for her to really get to know him.

Of course, there had been the incident on the train with the dementors. Hermione was aware that the whole business had surely been made much less unpleasant than it could have been due to Professor Lupin's presence. He'd gained her respect and admiration straight away with how he'd handled the situation so deftly. Now that she knew he had been such good friends with James Potter in school, she couldn't imagine how he had felt seeing Harry, who was the spitting image of his father, for the first time in who knows how long, much less in such unusual and dire circumstances. But any emotional turmoil that Lupin had been experiencing had been well hidden. She did wonder why Lupin hadn't seen Harry at all in the intervening years of his childhood. As it was here in the 1970's, James and Remus (and Sirius Black, Hermione was forced to acknowledge, even if it made her uncomfortable) were incredibly close. She couldn't imagine that Lupin wouldn't have wanted to see his friends son and be involved in his life, but perhaps circumstances had prevented him from doing so. For some nagging reason she suspected Dumbledore may have played a role in things, though she wasn't sure why she felt that way. In any case, she could only speculate at this point, and Hermione was quite sure she didn't want to remain in the past long enough to find out for certain.

If she wanted to be friends with Remus, which Hermione now thought that she did, it might be beneficial to try to separate him from the Professor whom she had known so briefly in the 1990's. As much as she possible could anyway. After all, the Remus she had spent the afternoon studying with hadn't yet grown into the man who had (or would—tenses were such complicated business when one had traveled through time) taught her Defense along with Harry and Ron. It would probably do her no good to conflate the two of them, and it would almost certainly result in a headache, she thought. Indeed, it already was. Perhaps she should just allow herself the freedom to simply enjoy spending time with Remus, who happened to like Shakespeare and made an excellent study partner, rather than expending so much energy projecting Lupin onto him. The 1970's were forcing Hermione to become a lot better at compartmentalization, that was for certain. Frankly, it was exhausting. But the alternative of countless introspective speculation and worry was even more exhausting, and would probably drive Hermione quite mad if she continued with it. So it was possible that, with extreme compartmentalization, she had arrived at the best mode of operation for herself and her sanity while she was in the 1970's. What remained to be seen was if she had the self-discipline to put that into practice, and to not let her thoughts and worries about what she knew of the future completely overwhelm her while she was here in the past.

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It was later that week, in Potions, that Hermione's newfound compartmentalization abilities were to be severely tested. It was as though fate had sensed her determination and optimism regarding her newly arrived at defense mechanism of choice , and was dead set on smashing her hopes for enacting it effectively. In a misguided attempt at 'mixing things up', Slughorn had decided that, rather than letting his Slytherin and Gryffindor third years arrange themselves into their usual, preferred groupings, he would assign potions partners for the day himself. Upon revealing this news, Slughorn was greeted with a predictable round of groans and eyerolls from his students across both houses, who were considerably less enthused about this idea than he was. He waved away their protest with a small chuckle, a distinct sadistic sparkle emanating from his beady little eyes. Why, Hermione wondered, did teachers always think assigning partners was such a profoundly delightful and original idea? In almost one hundred percent of cases, it was clearly the exact opposite. To Hermione's eye, Professors seemed to do this kind of thing largely for the benefit of their own amusement, which, in her opinion, was not a reason with academic merit behind it.

As Slughorn began pairing people up, and it became clear that he was not assigning partners across house lines, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed Slughorn was smart enough to recognize the forcible pairing up of Gryffindors and Slytherins for the potentially catastrophic endeavor it was. Unfortunately for Hermione, she had been lulled into a false sense of security by this choice on the part of Slughorn. The sigh of relief it had prompted from her, it turned out, had been decidedly premature. She had been prepared for unpleasantness, but nothing could have prepared her for the cataclysmic horror of being assigned to work with Sirius Black. Which is, of course, exactly what ended up happening.

Why did bad things always happen in potions, Hermione thought crossly as she dragged herself across the room towards Black, feeling as though she had lead weights attached to her legs and was wading through a thick syrup towards the embodiment of evil. Well, that was possibly slightly dramatic, she acknowledged to herself, but Black _was_ a future mass murderer. Hermione certainly had no desire to share a table with him. She would have rather sat with Snape! And that was saying something, because even though she loved Lily, and had tried very hard to be respectful of the other girl's friendship with the moody Slytherin, she still found Snape to be deeply unpleasant.

Lily had been paired up with Remus, which seemed desperately unfair to Hermione from the vantage point of her own situation. Still, it was hard to feel any bitterness toward her new friend just for having the benefit of Slughorn's favoritism. In the short time she'd been in the 1970's Hermione had already observed what a mixed blessing that favoritism could be. Interacting with Slughorn as a muggle born involved a lot of grinning and bearing it when the old pureblood inevitably said something unintentionally condescending or offensive to you, something Lily dealt with very well. Hermione certainly couldn't fault the girl for reaping what benefits there were from having managed to stay in the Potion Master's good graces for so long. The red head had screwed up her face in sympathy when Hermione's own partner had been announced, looking horrified on her behalf. Lily knew, at least to some degree, how Hermione felt about Black. It wasn't as if she knew the whole picture, of course, but she'd certainly picked up on the fact that Hermione _strongly_ disliked Black, and had seen that her friend went out of her way to avoid the Marauder at all costs.

So itt was with a great deal of reluctance, and no small amount of muted horror, that Hermione forced herself to take a seat next to Black at his table. Irritatingly, he had spread his papers about all across the surface of their work station in a messy and almost wanton manner, clearing uncaring of the fact that his mess was obviously encroaching on her designated space. With a sniff, Hermione proceeded to edge her chair as far away as possible from Black, moving it none to subtly to the end of the table. This did not go unnoticed by her companion, who was looking considerably affronted by her behavior. But Hermione was utterly uncaring of the fact that she was being very obviously, and incredibly rude. She had no time for politeness when it came to Sirius Black.

For a few minutes they sat in stiff, uncomfortable silence as they read over and reviewed the instructions for their assigned potion. Hermione, in a continuing vein of rudeness, had not even bothered to verbally greet Sirius, and had instead nodded at him in brusque manner. Black had returned her nod shortly, seeming to become visibly more and more frustrated by Hermione's unwarranted (to his knowledge), but undeniable hatred of him the longer he was subjected to it.

"Well," Hermione said when they had both clearly finished with the instructions. "I guess we had better begin. I'll go get the ingredients, you can," she paused to gesture at the mess of Black's belongings, still spread all across the table, "clear all of this up."

"Fine," Sirius grunted, clearly exasperated by her and her attitude toward him.

Hermione trotted off to get the ingredients, thankful to be able to put some much needed distance between her and Black, if only very briefly. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, angrily shoving papers into his bag and appearing quite aggrieved. She huffed in irritation. _Black_ was aggrieved at having been forced to work with _her_? Thatwas rich! As if _he_ had any reason to be offended by _her_ presence! Well, she _was_ being remarkably unpleasant toward him, Hermione could acknowledge, but she certainly had her reasons! Not that Black could possibly be privy to her reasons at this point, but still. He was a future murder. He d _eserved_ her rudeness. Certain in the righteousness of her what she would normally consider totally unacceptable behavior, Hermione finished gathering up the supplies.

Returning to their now clear table, she stiffly resumed her seat, pausing to shoot a nasty glare at Black as she did so. The two of them then began sorting the ingredients, and shortly thereafter her and Black began working on their potion, enveloped in a tension fraught silence. They continued in this manner for the majority of the lesson, communicating as little as possible and scarcely bothering to look at each other. Hermione would have been perfectly happy to have gotten through this whole ordeal without having said more than a few, clipped words to Black, but he, it seemed was not so content with such an arrangement.

"Why do you _hate_ me?" Sirius asked suddenly after about an hour, breaking away from the lacewing flies he had been cutting in order to stare at Hermione in frustrated perplexity.

Startled by this accusation, Hermione nevertheless continued with the seven counterclockwise stirs which were needed at this juncture of the brewing process, lest their potion end in utter disaster. Additionally, there was the added benefit of her careful ministrations providing her with an excuse not to address Sirius, at least for the moment. Hermione found however, that as she stirred she had to try very hard not to be unnerved by the Black heir's unwavering, accusatory gaze. Too quickly, she found herself finished with her stirring and left with nothing to do but to face the boy next to her, still looking upon her with an air of wounded accusation and frustration.

Slowly laying down her wand on their shared potions table, Hermione folded her hands primly in her lap before reluctantly turning to face Sirius.

"I hardly hate you, Black," she said dismissively. "Don't be ludicrous."

Sirius snorted indelicately. "Ludicrous, am I? Is that why you flinch and turn the color of moonstone dust every time I come near you?"

Hermione struggled not to flinch just now. Since arriving in this time, she had done her utter best to avoid this boy version of Sirius Black as much as possible, but given their shared living arrangements and classes it was something of a difficult task. She found herself forced into his presence almost constantly, and apparently she hadn't been as adept at controlling her reaction to him as she had thought. She'd certainly been anything but subtle about her negative feelings towards him today.

"My complexion is quite pale naturally, Black," she said tightly, in an attempt at deflection.

Sirius raised his eyebrows at her skeptically. "Oh is it? Because I thought you looked quite rosy cheeked the other night in the common room talking to Remus!"

Hermione flushed involuntarily. "We were discussing Shakespeare! Literature excites me!"

Sirius just looked at her, gob smacked at that explanation. Hermione wasn't being untruthful though. Since their study session with Lily earlier that week, Hermione and Remus had forged what seemed like the beginnings of a tentative friendship, and had begun chatting somewhat regularly. As she had anticipated, it _was_ quite nice to be able to talk intelligently about muggle literature with someone other than Lily. Harry and Ron had certainly never been interested in such things, but the 1970's was affording her more opportunities than she would have expected for such discussions.

Her current conversation, if one could classify it as such, had lapsed into silence after her outburst, as Sirius continued to stare at her in bewilderment.

"I don't hate you, Black" Hermione reiterated weakly, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive posture.

Sirius snorted again, though this time it sounded more defeated than accusatory. After another drawn out silence, he looked sideways at her.

"It's because of my name, isn't it?" Sirius stated flatly, hardly a question. "Black." he said, biting out his surname with a distinctly unpleasant expression on his face. "You think I'm some sort of muggleborn hating, pureblood maniac, don't you?"

Hermione sucked in a breath, studiously not looking at him. Something along those lines anyway. No matter how innocent he seemed now, this was a boy who would grow up to do monstrous things in the name of blood purity. He would become a mass murderer.

"Haven't you heard?" Sirius whispered harshly, breaking Hermione from her reverie. "I'm a blood traitor now. A disgrace to the _Most Noble and Ancient House of Black,_ " he continued bitterly, uttering the Black family motto in mocking tones."They don't even want me home for Christmas."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly. Despite everything, she found herself feeling genuinely bad for Sirius Black in that moment. He just looked so bitter and dejected right then. Unbidden, she was reminded of Harry staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas Holidays, unwanted by his family as well. Immediately following that involuntary thought, Hermione restrained a choked gasp, disgusted with herself for having even momentarily associated Sirius and Harry together. In her own time, Sirius Black had escaped from the most heavily guarded prison in the wizarding world just to come after Harry, in all likelihood to attempt his murder. The very thought vanished any pity she may have briefly felt for the Black heir. Resolutely, she turned away from him.

"Are you almost done with those lacewings? We need to add them in a few minutes." She said woodenly.

Sirius sighed heavily. "Yeah, alright, fine. But Granger?"

"What?" Hermione snapped eventually, when the expectant silence had become too oppressive for her to bear.

"I am _nothing_ like my family," Sirius said fiercely. "You'll see."

Hermione simply continued to stare at the top of the scratched potions table, and eventually, with yet another sigh, Sirius went back to the lacewings.

* * *

 _AN: Reviews are love!_


	8. Boggarts and Birthdays

Chapter 8: Boggarts and Birthdays

For the second time in as many months, Hermione's 14th birthday was once again approaching. Or was it, she wondered vaguely, in the detached manner she tended to adopt when contemplating the various ways in which traveling through time had fundamentally altered her existence. In all honesty, she really wasn't quite sure. It was true though, that she hadn't got to experience her 14th birthday in the 1990's, having been inconveniently hurled through time shortly before it would have occurred. It had put something of a damper on her plans. Technically, Hermione had reached the milestone of her 14th year on earth only a couple of days after she had arrived in the 1970's. But the date had been all wrong when it came to both the year and the day, and she hadn't exactly been in a celebratory mood at that point.

Perhaps it should have been a small thing, but it seemed terribly burdensome to Hermione that, on top of everything else, she should be expected to shed the date of birth that she had grown up with. She'd spent a great many years (13 to be precise) getting used to her birth date, and she wasn't inclined to give it up at this point. It may not have been entirely practical for her to keep it, but contrary to popular belief, Hermione wasn't always _entirely_ practical.

Besides, who even knew how old she was anymore. Even before she'd ended up back in the 1973, she'd been using a time turner for weeks; living hours multiple times, every day, in order to get to all her classes. Accounting for those extra hours, it was possible she _had_ turned 14 in 1993, just a little earlier than she might have expected. And now, in 1973, if you went by her original birth year, she was actually negative six. It was a very muddled affair, but not one that she wished to spend all that much energy fretting over. For the sake of convenience and her sanity, Hermione had decided to keep her 'original' birthday of September 19th, just with an altered year of birth; replacing 1979 with 1959.

Hermione had never been much of a birthday person anyway, shuddering at the extravagant displays of attention that others expected and reveled in. She had always been happy when Harry and Ron remembered and acknowledged her birthday, and she appreciated a thoughtful gift, but she much preferred a quiet affair over a giant party. For her coming birthday, her first in the 1970's, she planned to treat herself to some reading for pleasure and head down to Hagrid's for a nice tea. Since having moved into the castle, Hermione had made it a point to make it to Hagrid's at least once a week for tea. He knew it was her birthday though, and Hermione was sure that her new guardian would attempt to do something to honor the occasion, though hopefully he would refrain from cooking. She wasn't opposed to a birthday cake (she found lemon cakes with white icing particularly tempting), but one of Hagrid's rock cakes wasn't exactly what she had in mind.

The fact that Hermione wasn't one to want too much of a fuss made over her when it came to birthdays lined up quite well with the fact that, here in the 1970's, any excessive attention paid to her was potentially dangerous. So, what with her natural inclinations and given her current circumstances, Hermione had made somewhat of a conscious effort to keep the news of her coming birthday from her new friends. Excepting Hagrid, of course, who was really more of an old friend anyway. Naturally, though, Lily had somehow managed to find out all about it. Hermione never should brought her along for tea with Hagrid so near to her birthday, she knew how terrible the man was at keeping secrets.

Hagrid was, of course, utterly capable and trustworthy, but he had a certain way of being inadvertently indelicate with sensitive information. Hermione thought back to how the Gamekeeper, under the influence of liquor and the promise of a dragon egg, had been coaxed into revealing information about Fluffy to a cloaked Professor Quirell her first year. Not to mention what he had unintentionally let slip to her, Harry and Ron about Nicholas Flamel and Fluffy.

So, by having confided in Hagrid about her Birthday, and subsequently bringing Lily along for tea with him last week, Hermione had set off a series of events which ensured that the whole of Gryffindor tower, or at least it's third year inhabitants, were aware that she was turning 14 on September 19th. Dorcas and Mary had heard about it from Lily, and Remus had also been informed, so she could safely assume that the rest of the Marauders knew as well. Hermione shuddered. The very thought of Sirius Black learning any more personal information about her made her skin crawl. Since their distinctly unpleasant, forced partnership in potions the other day, relations between the two of them had become even more uncomfortable, a regression Hermione would have previously thought impossible.

She was still avoiding and ignoring Black as much as she possibly could, but this endeavor was made rather difficult by the fact that they shared a common living space, as well as a multitude of classes. Being confronted with Black constantly sometimes made Hermione regret having chosen Gryffindor as her Hogwarts home a second time around. Almost. She certainly wasn't going to let the likes of Sirius Black ruin any experiences for her, not if she could help it. She really needed to get her blatant animosity towards him under control though. Other people were taking notice. While _she_ knew her behavior towards Black was completely rational (it was, after all, rational to detest future murderers and try to avoid them at all costs), other people considered it bizarre and unwarranted. The other day, Lily had looked at her incredulously, putting aside her essay for a moment in order to make a pronouncement. "My god, Hermione," she said, shaking her head disbelievingly. "I think you hate Black more than I hate Potter. And I _loathe_ Potter."

The red head had appeared stunned by this revelation, but it was undoubtedly true. In just a few years, Lily would be married to James Potter and pregnant with his child, her future/former best friend. But Hermione would still hate Sirius Black.

* * *

"I just don't understand how anyone could _not_ want a birthday party," Dorcas said one afternoon, a couple of days before Hermione was due to turn 14. The blonde witch was sprawled languidly across one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, flipping idly through their astronomy text without appearing to take any of it in. Her usually effervescent blue eyes were glazed over with boredom. Hermione suspected that Dorcas had seized on the topic of her birthday mostly as a means with which to divert them all from studying. Whatever the reason, this was certainly not the first time in recent days that Dorcas had expressed disbelief over Hermione's lack of desire for a party, and honestly, Hermione was beginning to tire of hearing the other girl's opinion on it.

"Leave it, Dorcas," Lily said mildly, glancing up briefly from her moon chart to give the blonde a quelling look. "Not everyone wants, or needs, to take every possible opportunity to be the center of attention."

Dorcas snorted indelicately. "Why not? I always do, it's good fun!"

The blonde sat up suddenly, dumping the astronomy text book on the floor, and turned eagerly to Hermione and Lily. She had opened her mouth, as though ready to spew forth a treatise on the merits of birthday parties, but observing the flat, unimpressed look on Lily's face, and the mildly scandalized one on Hermione's (the potential damage to a text book!) she snapped it shut again, looking decidedly put out to be faced with such a clearly an unreceptive audience. Mercifully Hermione and Lily's utter lack of interest in discussing the matter seemed to have finally persuaded Dorcas to relent and drop the topic of Hermione's birthday. At least for the moment. The blonde witch fell back into her chair with an air of defeat, heaving a highly dramatic sigh. Dorcas was undoubtedly exasperated with Hermione and Lily for what she perceived to be their tedious preference for studying over the discussion of birthdays. Hermione and Lily shared a mildly amused look at their friend's antics; it was all very typical Dorcas behavior.

Hermione had found ,since arriving in the 1970's and making her acquaintance, that Dorcas existed in the world in a manner that was almost constantly overdramatic. The irrepressible, blonde witch usually had a way of making such an existence, and herself within it, seem entirely charming. Usually. Currently, however, she was grating on Hermione's nerves just a bit. Said nerves had been in a perpetual state of frazzle since her arrival in the 70's, and they did not take kindly to Dorcas's current line of birthday related questioning.

"Well, now I guess I have to _study_ ," Dorcas said with a theatrical shudder, as though the prospect were utterly horrific. "You two are a terrible influence on me, I hope you know that."

* * *

Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts in the 1970's was taught by a thin, almost awkwardly tall man named Professor Snider. He appeared to be in his early thirties, and had a beard, blonde tinted with red, which did nothing to make him seem any older. He had a way of seeming awkward in his own gangly limbs, ill at ease with their length and therefore making them seem overly long. Despite his flustered manner, he was a nice enough man from what Hermione could tell. Affable, but competent. It was obvious though, she thought, that this was his first year teaching. It seemed the revolving door of DADA teachers, and the rumored curse on the position, was something that went back at least to the 1970's. Lily, Dorcas and Mary had informed her that Professor Snider was their third defense teacher in as many years.

From what they said, Snider was a marked improvement over their instructor from the previous year, Professor Kelsico. According to Lily, Kelsico had worked at the Ministry of Magic before he'd come to Hogwarts, and he'd had an unfortunate habit of devoting entire lessons to ranting angrily about the current goings on at his previous place of employ. It was unclear why Kelsico had left the Ministry, but Lily suspected it was because the man was, in the words of the red head, 'a mad old bat'. Hogwarts certainly had a very spotty history when it came to Defense instructors, Hermione reflected as she walked into the class the Thursday before her birthday. The fact that they hadn't sorted it out by the 90's was really rather depressing, if not alarming. Professor Snider was doing all right so far though. From what she could tell, he was following roughly the same lesson plan as Lupin would in the 90's; focusing on identifying and dealing with 'dark creatures' for the first unit of the term.

She found herself experiencing a profound sense of deja vu when Snider announced that they would be taking a trip outside the classroom that day in order to deal with a rouge boggart that was making a pest of itself in the staffroom. Something of a perennial problem, apparently, Hermione noted wryly as she trailed down the corridor after Snider with the rest of her classmates. For Lupin, though, the boggart's presence had conveniently coincided with the first lesson of his third years, which made for a rather dramatic introduction of a new Professor. Snider had been forced to announce himself in a far more traditional and benign manner in their first lesson with him. But the boggart had finally made itself known, and Hemione supposed it was better late than never. She doubted, though, that anything as delightful and unintentionally hilarious as Neville's boggart turning into Professor Snape, and eventually being forced into drag, would occur today.

Lupin must have been secretly amused by that, Hermione realized now, shooting a glance at Remus as he shuffled into the staffroom surrounded, as usual, by Sirius, James and Peter. He may have been friendly with Lily, but that didn't mean he held any less animosity for the red head's Slytherin friend than any of the rest of the Marauders. She had seen Remus' clearly negative feelings about Snape, and the behavior of him and the Marauders towards him, emerge as a tension between him and Lily a few times now. Hermione always tried her best to stay out of such disagreements. She thought she did quite a good job concealing her own considerably negative feelings about Snape from Lily, and she didn't want to do anything to make her strong dislike of the boy known. After all, the boy version of Snape had not yet done anything egregious enough to warrant the degree of her dislike for him.

It was not lost on Hermione that she had been unable, and unwilling, to adopt such a charitable attitude when it came to Sirius Black. But, she reasoned, such a disparity was entirely understandable. Snape may have been an extremely unpleasant person, both here in the 1970's and in the 1990's, but at least the 1990's version of him wasn't a mass murderer who had escaped the most secure prison in the wizarding world just to attempt to kill her best friend. So Snape had that going for him, if nothing else. Besides, Hermione didn't want to do anything to offend or alienate Lily, who had so quickly become so important to her. For Lily, she could tolerate Snape. But she could tolerate Sirius Black for no one.

Speaking of Black, he had taken up a position on the far side of the room, and was leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking simultaneously bored and surly. James, on the other side of Sirius, looked unabashedly excited at the prospect of facing the boggart, no doubt eager to demonstrate his bravery in front of everyone, most especially Lily. He really was a Gryffindor archetype, Hermione thought with wonder, shaking her head at his exuberance. Remus seemed a bit fidgety and nervous, Hermione noted, a far cry from how he had been when faced with a boggart in the 1990's. But she supposed that with age came self-assurance and a greater understanding and ability to deal with and face ones fears. But then again, childish fears tended to be less complex and easier to overcome than adult ones.

Well, Hermione caught herself. That wasn't always true. Not every child was afraid of something as straightforward to tackle as a banshee or a boogeymen. Some children, like Harry she assumed, though he had never confided in her about such things, had decidedly unchildish fears. Heartbreaking fears that should have only been able to belong to a much older person. Complicated, unruly fears that were not so easy to make ridiculous. Some people didn't have the luxury of childish fears. And she surmised that that was why Lupin had gone so out of his way to shield Harry from facing the boggart in 1993, knowing Harry's history and making the same assumption about his probably unchildish fears as she had. And maybe that was why Remus looked so nervous now. Hermione had no idea what he feared, and just how serious that fear might be.

She hadn't been able to quite catch what the boggart of the adult Remus had been, back in her first go round of this Defense lesson in 1993. Lupin had dispatched his boggart so quickly, almost lazily, really, that it had been difficult to tell what it actually was. Some sort of white, orb? A crystal ball perhaps? Maybe Lupin feared divination. Hermione snorted. She herself had nothing but disdain for the subject, and saw no reason to fear it. She wondered what _her_ boggart would appear as now? What did she fear? She hadn't had a chance to face the boggart back in the 1990's, but she suspected it would have manifested itself as some sort of representation of academic failure. Now, in the wake of her having been so rudely removed from her rightful time period, she was unsure what form the creature would take in response to her. Was there a way to embody in physical form the constant, wrenching paranoia that she would be found out as an imposter? The terror of knowing that she could very possibly change things irrevocably for the worse? Hermione wasn't sure there was. In any case, she would likely find out what form her boggart would soon enough. She just hoped it wouldn't reveal anything too damaging.

"What's with you two?" Peter Pettigrew was asking across the room, frowning in confusion at Sirius and Remus. The bad moods of his two friends were obvious enough that even Peter, who was not known for being particularly observant, had noticed and felt impelled to comment on them.

Sirius grunted in response to Peter's question, not bothering to look at the smaller boy, but choosing instead to continue staring moodily at a fixed point on the opposite wall of the staffroom. Remus only shrugged, shifting nervously.

"Leave it, Peter," James Potter instructed mildly.

It was obvious to James, as it should have been obvious to Peter, why Remus was so reluctant to face the boggart. But if Peter was too dim to make the connection between Remus' furry little problem and his current nerves, James certainly wasn't going to clue him in right now in front of everyone. James knew that if he were to do that, Peter would likely do something like say, "OH!" incredibly loudly, and then stare at Remus with awkward, obvious pity, which would only draw attention to Remus and further unnerve and embarrass the poor bloke. Best if he let Peter stumble upon the realization later, on his own. Although if Rem's boggart turned into the moon, it would be hard for even Peter not to put two and two together.

The reasons for Sirius' mood were less clear, but James suspected that it had something to do with his family, as Sirius' bad moods usually did. Sirius was generally moody and mercurial by nature, but particularly so in the immediate anticipation or aftermath of seeing his family. His moods could get quite dark in the lead up to holidays, and it took a while, usually a lag period of few weeks or so, for Sirius to completely return to normal after coming off of them. It was only the first half of September, the very beginning of the school year, so Sirius was still right in the midst of his recovery process, though James was hopeful he was nearing the end of it. Things had been made more difficult this year though, by the fact that Sirius' little brother Regulus had arrived at Hogwarts, only to be promptly sorted into Slytherin. Sirius had complained bitterly about how he was sure Regulus had received a glowing letter from their parents at the news of his sorting, in stark contrast to the howler Sirius had received from them two years ago when he'd been placed in Gryffindor.

He'd commented blithely that his road to disinheritance was now clearer than ever, barking out a harsh laugh at the prospect. Sirius often talked about his family situation, and his prospective disinheritance, as though it was all bizarrely hilarious, which James found somewhat disconcerting. Remus had explained to him, in private, that this was undoubtedly some sort of defense mechanism on Sirius' part, and that it would be best not to comment on it. James figured Remus knew all about defense mechanisms, and had heeded his advice. Best just to let Sirius vent; let him expel all his dark bitter thoughts to him, his best friend, who had no experience with such things, but would always listen. And so James listened.

With the Black's second son safely ensconced in the snake den, Sirius had opined, it would be all too easy for them to blast their embarrassing, Gryffindor dwelling, first born off the family tree and pretend he had never existed in the first place.

"If I'd been a _girl_ , they would have already done it," Sirius had informed James late one night their first week back at Hogwarts, his eyes dark and sure. "Antiquarian, misogynistic fucks."

James had nodded in sympathetic agreement (but not too sympathetic, never anything verging into what Sirius could perceive as pity, that would only make it worse). He suspected Sirius' upset at Regulus' sorting actually went much deeper than the reaction of his parents to it, and the potential implications it had for his being disowned. But Sirius clearly didn't want to talk about it from any other angle, and James had found it was best not to push Sirius when it came to matters dealing with his family.

But it wasn't just the situation with his brother that was impeding Sirius' recovery this year, there was also the matter of Lily Evans' new friend Hermione Granger; mysterious new girl with all the implications of a tragic past, and an inexplicable hate for Sirius. She was currently huddled across the room with Lily, the two of them paying rapt attention to Professor Snider as he related an introduction of boggarts. Remus had assured them that Hermione was very nice (this pronouncement had elicited and incredulous laugh from Sirius, which James felt was only fair, given the girl's attitude toward him since her arrival at Hogwarts). Sirius was convinced she hated him because of his family. He was at once resentful of Hermione's unabashed loathing of him, and yet on another level, seemed to feel he deserved it somehow just because he was a Black.

"Pureblood fanatics probably killed her family, and I'm from a family of pureblood fanatics. No wonder she hates me," he had said last week, after having spent a tense looking potions session forcibly partnered with the girl. "I think she's _afraid_ of me," Sirius had finished, looking almost stunned.

Remus had sighed, turning seriously to face him. "You're probably right Sirius," he had acknowledged soberly. "Her entire family was just murdered, probably by fanatical, muggle hating purebloods, as you said."

Peter had squeaked, horrified to hear it put so bluntly. Sirius had just looked pale and strained. James wasn't sure what he had looked like.

"I think that Hermione's dealing with a horrible trauma, and she's projecting her anger onto you because of your family. And that's…not ideal," Remus had settled on. "But eventually, when she's grieved a little more, she'll be able to see that you're clearly _not_ a pureblood fanatic, Sirius, and she'll realize that her anger is misplaced. She'll stop lashing out at you. In the meantime, just try to ignore her."

Sirius had shook his head and smiled; wry on the surface, but slightly bitter underneath. "Ever wise, Moony, ever wise," he had softly, ducking his head.

Remus was right about one thing, James thought now, covertly eyeing Hermione from his position across the staffroom from her; the situation was not ideal. Sirius might be pretending it wasn't bothering him overly, but James knew it was secretly cutting his friend up more than he was letting on. As a Black, Sirius was used to a certain set of people disliking him on sight just because of his name, but it usually wasn't so intense, and it usually didn't go on for this long. James believed Remus when he said that Hermione was a nice girl, he really did, and her own situation was undeniably horrific, but he still couldn't help resenting her just a bit for the way she was treating Sirius. The effect she was having on him. James had always been overly protective of his friends. He couldn't help it, it was the Gryffindor in him.

"Now," Professor Snider was saying, gesturing expansively at them all. "The key with this incantation is not necessarily pronunciation, but rather _confidence_ and _concentration_! You must visualize with utmost clarity how you will turn your greatest fear into a farce! You cannot simply say 'ridiculous' and expect anything to happen. Rather, you must actually _believe_ that you have rendered your fear ridiculous in that moment in which you confront the boggart," he emphasized.

Hermione frowned, chewing her lip in concentration. Despite having spent the last few minutes frantically searching the annals of her mind for a potential solution to her problem, she remained utterly at a loss for as to how she could possibly 'render her fear a farce', as Professor Snider had put it. The task had seemed monumentally more simple back in 1993, when she'd thought the greatest thing she had to fear was a slew of bad grades. It certainly hadn't occurred to her that she ought to fear being yanked from her present reality and relocated 20 years in the past. But that was exactly what had happened. Hermione shook her head. Her circumstances had certainly changed a great deal.

Perhaps it would be best, Hermione ultimately decided, if she just made her way unobtrusively to the back of the line and tied to avoid facing the boggart all together. It wasn't a typically Gryffindor move, she knew, but unnecessary bravado wasn't always something to be praised. In the end, Hermione was simply being practical. Practicality may not have been a quality that was usually particularly abundant in Gryffindor, but it was a quality Hermione possessed in spades nonetheless, and she'd always prided herself on her ability to exercise it with discernment. And so she was exercising it now. She could keep her birthday, however impractically self-indulgent she may have been for doing so, but she could not face this boggart, she decided firmly. It was simply too risky.

After all, Hermione wasn't sure just how revealing of her current situation her boggart might be, and upon further consideration, she was quite sure she didn't want to find out. There was more at risk here than mere potential embarrassment for her. If the form of her boggart exposed her true origins in any way, even pointed to them subtly, it could be catastrophic. All that had to happen was for a seed to be planted in someone's mind, something they might not understand now, but that they would remember, and which they might examine in a new light at a later date. Hermione couldn't allow for that potentiality. She couldn't face the boggart.

Most of her fellow classmates, Hermione observed, had clearly come to the opposite conclusion as she herself had. Despite their poorly hidden nerves, almost all of them seemed resolved to eventually face the boggart and confront their fears. Apart from Hermione, the rest of the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw third years were currently milling around, muttering to themselves and trying to look determined. Or, alternatively, they were clustered together whispering, occasionally shooting furtive, vaguely alarmed looks at the wardrobe which Professor Snider had informed them housed the boggart. Curiously, Hermione noted that the only other people not engaging in this sort of behavior happened to be the Marauders.

James Potter, rather than shooting worried glances at the boggart's wardrobe, was instead shooting worried glances at his friends. Remus was paler than ever now, his nerves having progressed as the time to face the boggart drew closer. Frankly, to Hermione's eye, he looked as though he might be sick. Sirius was still lent against the wall, scowling with an impressive degree of hostility at the floor. In point of fact, Peter Pettigrew was the only one of the Marauders behaving like the rest of their classmates; nervously eyeing the wardrobe, and sweating slightly out of nerves. Unlike James, Peter was either oblivious to the distress of his friends, or his concern for them was overshadowed by his concern for the boggart.

Hermione frowned. In her effort to avoid facing the object of today's Defense lesson, she found herself curiously and unwelcomely aligned with Sirius Black. While Remus looked more nervous and frightened than ever, presumably because he planned to face the boggart, and he feared whatever it was that awaited him when he did, Black just looked sullen and angry. It didn't seem to Hermione that he had any intention of removing himself from his post at the wall in order to engage with the boggart. Like herself, Sirius seemed to have decided that confronting his fear out in the open in front of their classmates was the absolute last thing he planned on doing.

Professor Snider may have had other ideas for them though. After having given his class what he clearly thought was a sufficient amount of time for them to devise a strategy to conquer the boggart (he was wrong, at least in the case of a few of his students), Professor Snider was now instructing them to line up in front of the boggart infested wardrobe. His students, with the notable exceptions of Hermione Granger and Sirius Black, did so. Some assembled reluctantly, while others (mostly boys) aggressively fought to position themselves toward the front of the pack, giddy with an eagerness to demonstrate their bravery.

Hermione slowly waded her way in to the mass of nervous students, inserting herself unobtrusively toward the very back of the line. Unlike Black, who still hadn't moved from his spot on the wall, she was at least attempting to look as though she had plans to actively participate in the lesson. Professor Snider had given Black a long, measured look when he hadn't heeded his instructions to line up, but had so far elected not to comment on Sirius' clear refusal to move. Hermione had no wish to attract such negative or concerned attention from a Professor, and so she felt confident in her own more subtle strategy.

The wardrobe had begun vibrating in a somewhat ominous manner. Hermione could only assume that the creature inside was able to sense the unusual amount of human activity in the staffroom, and had become excited by the prospect of exploiting such a wide and plentiful variety of adolescent fears. It wasn't going to get hers though, of that Hermione was quite determined.

As it happened, it looked as though Dorcas would be the first one to face the boggart. Having been one of the only girls to elbow her way to the front of the fray, she now found herself poised to fight the inaugural fight against the creature. Far from seeming the least bit timid or worried, Dorcas was her typically confident self, holding her wand steadily in preparation for a fight. She was ready, Hermione thought, as confident in Dorcas as she was in herself. The class watched, enraptured, as Professor Snider swung open the wardrobe door, releasing the boggart directly into the path of a grimly determined looking Dorcas Meadows. A sinister, creeping, grey mist emerged from the wardrobe, spreading quickly and threatening to engulf the whole staffroom and all of its occupants in a choking, oppressive, cloud. A feeling of cold, uncomfortable clamminess now pervaded the room.

Although Hermione couldn't fathom why Dorcas' greatest fear was apparently fog, she could admit that what she was currently experiencing was distinctly unpleasant. She was cold, wet, and beginning to find it hard to breathe. Quickly though, Dorcas was shouting ridiculous, and the mist began to dissipate; transformed into a cloud of harmless, pink smoke, which was floating up and away toward the ceiling and into non-existence, smelling quite pleasantly, Hermione thought, of incense. Dorcas laughed delightedly, and the room broke into applause. It seemed that Dorcas, having taken such a successful first crack at the boggart, had inspired a renewed sense of confidence amongst her fellow classmates who were still waiting to take their turn. She could be somewhat infectious that way, Hermione thought with a smile.

Once she had finished graciously accepting the adulation of her fellow students, Dorcas made her way to the back of the room, sliding in next to Hermione where she had ensconced herself in an out of the way corner. The blonde witch was smiling breezily, seeming quite exhilarated in the aftermath of her duel with the boggart.

"What an adrenaline rush!" Dorcas said by way of greeting, eyes sparkling enthusiastically.

Hermione laughed. "You were brilliant, Dorcas!" she said, congratulating her friend excitedly. She may have been decidedly less enthused about today's Defense lesson than Dorcas was, but she was still proud of her friend. "You were the epitome of Gryffindor bravery."

Dorcas laughed. "Thanks, Hermione," she said, nudging the other girl companionably.

Dorcas, Hermione had found, was a very physical person; prone to talking with her hands and expressing familiarity and affection with touch. Hermione was slowly getting used to it. Having previously only had close male friends in Harry and Ron, neither of whom were exactly prone to touchy-feely displays with her, the physicality was something Hermione hadn't experienced before. She was finding that it could be quite pleasant actually. Lily wasn't as demonstrably physical as Dorcas, but she displayed similar mannerisms among her friends, including with Hermione, just typically in a less exuberant fashion than Dorcas. Hermione supposed that girls had been socialized to behave in such a manner with each other in a way that was not encouraged between friends of the opposite sex. The Marauders, she had noticed, were quite physical in expressing their friendship with each other as well, constantly slung all about one another. Especially James and Sirius. It seemed there was only a moratorium on such things between friends of the opposite sex.

Dorcas settled in next to Hermione, and for the next half hour they found themselves subjected to a distressing display of their classmates' deepest and most potent fears. Sometime in the midst of this parade of horrors, Dorcas tore her gaze away from the spectacle of an oversized jellyfish tying itself in knots to glance sideways at Hermione. "Not too keen on it yourself, eh?" she asked, nodding in the direction of the boggart.

Hermione shrugged noncommittally.

"You're a very private person, aren't you Hermione?" Dorcas observed.

"I've become one," Hermione said honestly. Dorcas nodded thoughtfully, and they left it at that.

* * *

At the close of the lesson, Hermione exited the staffroom with a distinct feeling of relief. She had successfully avoided having to face the boggart, seemingly without any particular attention paid to her avoidance, and without any apparent repercussions. Unlike Black, she hadn't drawn unnecessary attention to herself by being visibly in a strop for the duration of the entire lesson.

The rest of the Marauders had been a mixed bag of success in their own confrontations with the boggart. James Potter had easily taken care of his rouge, knife wielding zombie as soon as it had lurched threateningly toward Lily. This did not go unnoticed by the rest of the class, as the entirety of Hogwarts was aware that James Potter had a raging crush on Lily Evans. His perceived rescue of Lily had resulted in a few wolf whistles and some scattered applause. Lily had rolled her eyes in irritation, her face slightly pink with embarrassment. Her frustration was compounded by the fact that she never did get the chance to take on the boggart herself. Lily was quite put out about her lack of opportunity, complaining for a good portion of lunch about her part in the lesson having been reduced to that of a side act in what she referred to disdainfully as, 'The James Potter Show'.

In contrast to James' effectiveness with the boggart, Peter Pettigrew had cowered rather pathetically in the face of his (a giant, plague ridden looking rat) and had had to be rescued by Professor Snider. As it transpired, Remus was the last of the Marauders to face the boggart, and for all his nerves leading up to the event, had managed to deal with it quite handily in the end. In a remarkable display of consistency, it appeared that Remus' greatest fear was just the same as Lupin's would still be 20 years in the future; a glowing, white orb. Though he had done very well with the boggart, it _had_ taken Remus just a bit more time to deal with it than it had Lupin. Enough time for Hermione to realize that, curiously, what they both feared most was the moon.

She and Dorcas had exchanged a pair of raised eyebrows over Remus' mysteriously benign boggart. Mysteriously benign from their point of view anyway. But that clearly wasn't how Remus (or Lupin, for that matter) felt. Really though, they hardly had any room to judge. After all, fog was hardly any less innocuous than the moon when it came to greatest fears, but it was Dorcas' nevertheless. The blonde had explained to her, Lily and Mary out in the corridor that she gotten lost in a nasty bout of fog as a child, and that the experience had been rather traumatic for her. Mary's boggart had perhaps been the strangest of all, turning into a kind of muggle caricature of a witch. Hermione found this very odd, especially given that Mary was a pureblood, but chose not to comment on it. If this lesson had taught her anything, it had less to do with defense ,and more to do with the fact that none of them, really, had any justified ground from which to judge anyone else's fears, no matter how perplexing and unwarranted they may have seemed.

* * *

 _AN: *requisite apology about how long it took to get this chapter out* It's really my fault guys, because I've been sitting on the proof read for days. Life y'all. But I really hope you like it now that it's here! I really enjoyed writing James and giving a little more insight into Sirius and the rest of the Marauders through him. I actually love James, and I hope that shows here_ _Hermione's birthday up next, it may be a bigger event than she would like_ _Reviews are love! Peace y'all!_


	9. The Inherent Mundanity of Wednesdays

Chapter 9: The Inherent Mundanity of Wednesdays

September 19th, 1973 happened to fall on a Wednesday. It also happened to be Hermione Granger's birthday. It seemed an auspicious turn of fate, one of the few granted to her lately, that Hermione's birthday fell during the doldrums of a school week, and not on the weekend. This meant there was far less opportunity for people to focus on it, busy as they were with classes all day, and having homework which would necessitate their attention in the evening. Hermione ventured that she couldn't have asked for a better day of the week on which to have her birthday fall. Wednesday, she thought, was quite possibly the most mundane day of the week. Bitterness over the end of the past weekend still lingered on in the hearts of the Hogwart's students (and likely a fair few Professors as well, Hermione reasoned), and the coming weekend still seemed ages away, not yet worth getting excited about. People were hardly in a celebratory mood. And that was exactly how Hermione wanted it.

Still, the mundane nature of Tuesday was only so powerful, and it didn't do anything to stop Hermione from being reminded of her birthday almost the second she woke up on September 19h, 1973.

"Happy Birthday Hermione!" Lily trilled, her beaming face dominating Hermione's field of vision the moment the other girl opened her eyes. Hermione smiled around a yawn, having not yet entered the realm of the fully awake, a space which Lily was clearly already occupying. She was jolted very quickly into full awareness, however, by the act of Dorcas cannonballing onto her bed and shouting her own birthday greeting at far too loud a volume for so early in the morning. All the noise had the effect of rousing Mary as well, who offered small smile and a quiet, "Happy Birthday, Hermione," from her bed across the room.

"Thank you," Hermione said, smiling helplessly in the face of her dorm-mate's birthday well wishes. It was true that for the sake of practically she didn't want all that much attention paid to her birthday, but she couldn't help but appreciate having it acknowledged with such genuine enthusiasm by her new friends. Neither Parvati nor Lavender had ever done anything more than toss out a half-hearted, "Oh, I didn't know it was your birthday today," to Hermione as afterthought, and their tepid offerings had come only after they noticed she had an unusual amount of letters and packages (first year), or they overheard her birthday being remarked upon by Harry and Ron at breakfast (second year). Her former roommates had certainly never remembered of their own volition, and there was nothing to indicate that would have ever changed. While there may have been a lot of downsides to having been forcefully transplanted in the 1970's, having found true friends in her dorm-mates, especially in Lily and Dorcas, was most definitely an upside.

Though Hermione had spent much of the previous week insisting to her friends that no one need bother to mark the occasion of her birth with gifts, her efforts had been in vain. After joining Hermione and Dorcas on Hermione's bed, Lily revealed a package from behind her back, tossing the gift at Hermione with a mischievous smile. It had been wrapped impeccably, which didn't surprise Hermione a bit given whom it was from. Hermione almost hated to disturb the paper. She'd always had an appreciation for a well wrapped present. When she finally did tear open the pretty package, she found that Lily had gifted her with a beautiful, red leather journal, embossed on the cover with a scattering of roses. Hermione gasped at the sight of it, struck by the intricacy of the design and the lovely, delicate lines of the roses.

"It's absolutely gorgeous, Lily, thank you," she breathed, staring at the journal in awe. "Did you get the roses for my name?" Hermione asked, tracing a rose lightly with her finger.

Lily nodded eagerly. "Yes! I thought it was fitting, both of us with our flower names."

"It's perfect," Hermione said sincerely, feeling incredibly touched and unexpectedly emotional. She reached forward to hug Lily tightly in thanks, almost overwhelmed by her friend's thoughtful generosity. Of course, it would be far too dangerous for Hermione to use the journal as a true diary in which to unburden herself and divulge her many secrets. Even if she hadn't been in possession of particularly burdensome secrets, the concept of keeping a diary had been somewhat spoiled for Hermione her 2nd year, given what had happened to Ginny. But she would treasure Lily's gift nonetheless, and she was certain that eventually she would think of a proper use for it.

"We'll have to visit the stationary shop in Hogsmeade when we go in October," Lily suggested. "They have lots of fancy quills and ink to choose from."

Hermione nodded. Her inaugural Hogsmeade visit, along with her birthday, was yet another milestone which she hadn't gotten the chance to experience in 1993, having been taken away too soon from her original time to be able to go to the village with Harry and Ron. She frowned. Well, likely it would have been just her and Ron. She thought of Harry and his unsigned permission form. It was so terribly unfair. Hermione knew that one of the things Harry cherished most about Hogwarts was that he was able to escape the influence of the Dursley's there. Now they were negatively effecting him at school as well.

Hagrid had signed her own form straight away, and Hermione was very grateful to have her large, inherently good-natured, friend as a guardian her in the 1970's. After all, if Dumbledore had placed Harry with the Dursley's, she had to count herself as quite lucky that she hadn't ended up in a similarly abhorrent position herself. If the headmaster hadn't been aware of the abusive nature of Harry's extended family when he had left him there as a child, he had surely been made aware of it after Harry's arrival at Hogwarts. It had become very troubling to Hermione, if not downright unconscionable, that Harry was sent back there every year. It was quite possible, she acknowledged, that there was information of which Dumbledore was privy to and which she was unaware. But that didn't mean she wasn't disturbed by the situation.

Hermione glanced once more at the beautiful journal Lily had gifted her, setting it carefully aside on her night stand. One of the most difficult and painful things about having become friends with Lily was knowing that Harry would have been so loved by her had she survived. Hermione had known that in the abstract back in the 1990's of course, but to actually come to know Lily personally and see just who Harry had been deprived of, juxtaposed with knowledge of what he had been subjected to instead, was a different matter entirely. But these were dark, unhappy thoughts, Hermione knew, and perhaps her birthday wasn't the best time to be getting lost in them. She shook her head, attempting to clear it.

Luckily, Dorcas was ready to distract her with a present of her own. In contrast to Lily's meticulous wrapping job, Dorcas' attempt was considerably less polished, though still charming. Hermione smiled at the reflection of the blonde's personality. The messily wrapped package contained a set of magical nail varnishes in a variety of colors and with different magical properties. Dorcas explained that one changed color based on mood, rather like a muggle mood ring except presumably based on actual emotion and not the temperature of one's hand. Another was simply an indestructible clear coat, which Dorcas deemed the most boring selection of the bunch, but which Hermione suspected was actually the polish she would utilize the most. Hermione smiled in thanks, charmed by the gift even if she wasn't typically prone to wearing nail varnish. Perhaps it was something which she would become more prone to under the influence of female friends. In any case, it would be fun to experiment. She reached forward to hug Dorcas as well, thanking her for the polish and pledging that she would try some out that night.

Mary had got her a present as well, a box of magical chocolates, which she presented to Hermione with a soft smile. All three of the girls indulged in a piece immediately, despite the fact that they hadn't yet had breakfast.

"It's your birthday, Hermione, who cares about spoiling your appetite," Dorcas declared, tossing a strawberry nougat filled piece into her mouth. "Have cake for breakfast, that's what I say!

* * *

Hermione did, in fact, have cake for breakfast, though of the pancake variety. Lady, the hawk which she had received as a gift from Hagrid, arrived while she was in the midst of indulging in a particularly syrup drenched bite of them. There was some oohing and awing from the general vicinity about the presence of a hawk in the dining hall, as Lady hadn't had much opportunity to deliver Hermione letters yet. Most people were expressing awe at her majesty (as the bird seemed to feel, and Hermione agreed, was her due) but some, notably Peter Pettigrew, seemed slightly frightened as she swooped across the table.

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes. Hawks and owls were both birds of prey, it was hardly any more dangerous to have Lady about the breakfast table than a screech owl. Perhaps it was the influence of her guardian, but she couldn't help but feel that some people were far too fussy about creatures who were perfectly reasonable as long as you treated them with care and respect. She didn't know Peter Pettigrew well, but his tendency be squeamish about and/or frightened of practically everything was both off-putting and tedious.

Lady was carrying a short note from Hagrid, wishing Hermione a happy birthday, and confirming their tea for that later that afternoon. Hermione smiled, penning a quick response in the affirmative, and sending Lady on her way. A nice tea, that was all the fuss she needed. Now that the portion of the morning where she was showered with presents had concluded, Hermione was hopeful that they rest of the day could proceed as normally as possible, to be concluded with a nice, relaxing tea with Hagrid. It is sometimes a dangerous thing to hope. It can have a way of tempting fate.

* * *

Tea with Hagrid was as lovely as Hermione had anticipated. At four thirty, promptly after classes had finished for the day, she made the trek down to her guardian's cottage, primed to tell him all about her pleasingly ordinary day. Hermione had devoted little thought to her birthday in the space between breakfast and the conclusion of her last class, consumed as she had been with her usual, daily academic tasks. Remus had come over to wish her a 'happy birthday' over lunch, which had been very sweet of him, but otherwise Hermione had had little time to dwell on the occasion. She chose to remain diligently focused on her school work, just as she would have been had it not been her birthday. Technically, after all, it wasn't. Not in the true, full, sense of the word anyhow.

Now, having arrived at Hagrid's, Hermione was being treated to a walking tour of his garden patch, where he was pointing out all of the latest developments.

"Your pumpkins are coming along nicely, Hagrid," Hermione volunteered, for lack of anything else to say. She wasn't a poor Herbology student by any stretch of the imagination, but she was no Neville Longbottom, and her knowledge of hobby gardening was considerably limited.

"Aye," Hagrid said gruffly, seeming a little skeptical. "They could use a little help. Halloween is coming up, mind yeh, 'bout a month out now."

He eyed his pink umbrella, which was propped up against the side of his garden shed, in what Hermione was sure he thought was a subtle, fruitive manner. Hagrid's telling glance was, in fact, just that; telling. Especially when Hermione could make a highly educated guess about just what happened to be contained within that pink umbrella, namely, the remnants of Hagrid's snapped wand. She hid a smile. Hermione had a feeling that Hagrid's pumpkins were about to get a lot bigger very quickly. The man was currently surveying them gloomily, not looking entirely pleased with their magically unaided development thus far.

"Eh," Hagrid said eventually, tossing out a dismissive wave in the direction of the gourds. "Enough about the pumpkins, let's go in for tea, Hermione. I already got the kettle on and all, wouldn't wanna burn the cottage down on yer birthday," he smiled wryly. "Not exactly what I had in mind for markin' the occasion."

Hermione giggled, ducking under Hagrid's arm and following after him into the cottage. She spent the next 45 minutes enjoying the coziness of her guardian's small kitchen, reveling in the pleasant warmth emanating from the fire in the stove, and indulging in not just one, but two, cups of tea as she caught Hagrid up on the latest goings on from up at the castle. With some minor editing of events, naturally. Call it her inner Slytherin, but she didn't want to worry the man needlessly. There was no point in making him aware of the escalating animosity between her and Sirius Black. Besides, she had perceived that Hagrid had a certain fondness for the Marauders.

The way the gamekeeper told it, he was forever chasing them off from the forbidden forest in order to prevent them from getting into shenanigans. Hermione could tell, though, that he found the Gryffindor boys and their various antics more amusing than exasperating. She suspected that Hagrid being forced to shoo them away from the edge of the dark forest on a bi-weekly basis was a ritual both parties actually enjoyed. In light of this, Hermione had no wish to spoil the pleasant atmosphere of the afternoon by getting into her negative feelings about Sirius. She could always vent to Lily, who had proved to be a far more receptive audience for such diatribes. Instead, she settled contentedly into her tea, chatting pleasantly about inconsequential things with Hagrid, and generally enjoying the man's company.

It was around six o'clock, just when they were winding down for the afternoon and it was almost time to for Hermione to get back up to the castle for dinner, when Hagrid looked sideways at her from beneath his voluminous crown of shaggy hair. It was with an endearing nervousness that he presented her with a small, sloppily wrapped package. Taking it from him with a smile and a token protestation that he needn't have bothered to get her anything, especially having so recently gifted her with Lady, Hermione couldn't help the pleased feeling blossoming in her chest in response to Hagrid's gesture.

Not for the first time that day, she found herself feeling almost overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the people in her new life, however treacherously discombobulated and secretly unruly that new life happened to be beneath the surface. Now all she had to do was prevent any of these lovely people from glimpsing beyond the veneer of normality which she had been working so hard to construct and present to the world ever since she had arrived in the 1970's. An easy task, surely. Hermione snorted, almost upending her tea as she attempted to juggle the cup along with the package from Hagrid.

Eyeing his rather spotty wrapping job, Hermione reflected that she would have to get Dorcas down for tea with Hagrid sometime soon. If nothing else, the two had present wrapping ability in common. She tore into the package, gingerly at first, before being forced to adopt a more aggressive technique in order to rid whatever lay within of its abundant trappings. Hagrid appeared to have utilized an entire roll of spellotape for some reason, but Hermione managed to eventually pry everything apart in order to reveal the small wooden box which had been hiding beneath the paper.

"A jewelry box?" she asked, brow furrowed.

Hagrid nodded. "Aye," he confirmed. "Now go on and open it, lass."

Hermione did so, uncovering a small, gorgeously carved, long-stemmed, wooden rose looped on a leather thong, meant to be worn as a necklace.

"It's rosewood," Hagrid explained softly as Hermione fingered the carving. "Carved it 'meself, the box as well."

The amount of detail on the rose was stunning, from the tiny thorns on the stem to the folds of the flower. The carving was beautifully rendered. Hermione could scarcely believe Hagrid had done it himself, that his immeasurably large fingers had been able to create such delicate object. The rose was only about the size of one of his fingernails.

"Hagrid, it's wonderful," Hermione breathed, feeling a bit choked up despite herself. "I love it. Here, help me put it on, would you?"

She lifted her hair, turning in her seat so that her back was to Hagrid. He stood from the table, shuffling over to her and taking the necklace from the box, draping it over Hermione's head and securing it with a knot of the leather thong at the back of her neck. Hermione dropped her hair, letting the necklace settle naturally on her. The rose sat just above the scar that she bore as a result of her ruined time turner, the tiny, wooden, leaves of the stem tickling her sternum.

Roses, it seemed, had become something of an unexpected theme for her this birthday. Beyond her parents, she'd never had people give much thought to the symbolism or meaning of her name before, and certainly not embodied in such thoughtful gifts.

"Hagrid," she asked curiously. "Did you chose a rose because of my name?"

"Aye," he said, confirming her suspicions. "Thought right away when I met you that your name suited you. It's a beautiful variety of rose."

Hermione was suddenly overcome with the intense need to hug Hagrid, and she let the impulse take her, surging forward and flinging herself at her guardian, burying her face in his large chest.

"Thank you," she whispered somewhere into the depths of his beard. And if one or both of them were crying, neither of them mentioned it.

* * *

After leaving Hagrid's, Hermione went on toenjoy a nice, quiet dinner, seating herself happily amongst Lily, Dorcas and Mary. She sipped her pumpkin juice with idle contentment as they oohed and awed over her new necklace, all three girls expressing surprise over the fact that Hagrid had carved it himself.

"Everyone has hidden depths, I suppose," Lily mused as she examined the intricately carved rose.

The red head let go of the necklace, which Hermione was still wearing, letting it drop back to settle once more against the other girls chest. Lily's ever discerning eyes lingered for the scantest moment on the place where Hermione's scar lay hidden beneath her sweater. After an uncomfortable minute, she tore them away to shoot Hermione one of the astute, inscrutable looks she seemed to specialize in, and which never failed to make Hermione vaguely nervous when they were directed at her.

Lily couldn't possibly be aware of just how right she was about hidden depths though, Hermione reassured herself. And she certainly didn't know just how much her dictum applied to the girl sitting next to her. Hermione forcibly brushed aside any nervous thoughts. Lily had only been talking about Hagrid, surely, and Hermione had most likely only projected a possible deeper meaning onto her friend's statement as a result of the paranoia which had clung to her like a suffocating, stifling blanket ever since she had arrived in the 1970's. It was nothing to fret over, and the conversation quickly moved on, so Hermione did as well, choosing to give no more thought to what she was sure had simply been an offhand comment.

All and all, Hermione thought that the evening, and her birthday, such as it was, was settling quite nicely into itself. She did a bit of studying in the common room after dinner, indulging in an evening cup of coffee as she did so. Coffee wasn't usually something she would allow herself so late, but it was her birthday, after all, so she figured she was entitled to a little indulgence. Dorcas' influence, perhaps. Although Hermione doubted that the blonde would consider coffee much of an indulgence, no matter what the time of night someone drank it. She, Lily and Mary had retreated to the dorm a while ago, leaving Hermione to herself and allowing her to get some studying done without distraction in relative peace and quiet.

A couple hours or so after she had begun, Hermione stretched, setting aside her newly completed Transfiguration essay and glancing at her watch. It was almost curfew, but she had a little time to nip down to the owlery and visit Lady before resuming her studying. She'd already seen her familiar at breakfast that morning, but only briefly, and visiting the hawk sounded like the perfect idea of a study break. Plus, it had the added bonus of allowing her to stretch her feet a little bit too; burn off some of the excess energy the coffee had imbued her with. Stowing her study materials and glancing at her watch once more (she had just enough time, she thought), Hermione climbed out of the portrait hole and began making her way to the owlery.

She had a nice little tête-à-tête with Lady, chatting softly with her about mostly nonsensical things, the bird clicking her beak at her in a manner which was alternately understanding and disagreeable. They had a pleasant chat, but it wasn't long before Hermione decided she had better cut the visit short and head back to Gryffindor Tower. She was just rounding a corner on the sixth floor, hurrying slightly in order that she should make curfew, when she ran headlong into a broad, distinctly male chest.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" a voice asked, the tone distinctly sinister. "A little, muggleborn mouse out for an evening stroll all by herself? Don't you know what a dangerous pastime that is little girl? You could be happened upon by a snake."

* * *

 _AN:_ _Cliffhanger? Sort of. Kind of a shortish chapter for me, but the next one should be full of action, believe me. It's a scene I've had written from the beginning and basically what prompted me to write this story. Not to build it up too much if you end up hating it lol! But I don't think you will. Hopefully. I loved writing the bonding moments between Hermione and everyone in this chapter. When it eventually comes time for Sirius to get her a gift I'm going to have to think of something really amazing, because I may have used all my best gift ideas in this chapter. Rambling author's note, sorry. Until next time y'all, reviews are love._


	10. A Continued Exercise in Unreality

_AN:_ _A housekeeping note: I've made Lucius Malfoy about two years younger in this story than he is in cannon, so he could be a seventh year when Hermione comes to Hogwarts._

* * *

Chapter 10: A Continued Exercise in Unreality

" _Well, well, well, what do we have here?" a voice asked, the tone distinctly sinister. "A little, muggleborn mouse out for an evening stroll all by herself? Don't you know what a dangerous pastime that is little girl? You could be happened upon by a snake."_

* * *

Hermione quickly scrambled to distance herself for the boy whose chest she had just collided with, raising her eyes in order to assess him as a potential threat. A probable threat, she amended, if his menacing greeting was any indication of their future interactions. The boy she had run into was tall with dark hair, and a Slytherin, judging by the crest on his robes and his rather unoriginal choice in animal metaphors.

"You really ought to watch where you're going," the Slytherin boy informed her nastily, looking down his nose at her, and sounding for all the world like the stereotypical bully out of one of those films about American teenagers which didn't yet exist.

"Aren't you going to apologize for running into your better?" he demanded of her, and Hermione's eyes widened slightly at the implications. She'd dealt with enough snide, bigoted comments from Draco Malfoy and his cronies back in the 1990's to know what this boy was getting at. How little things had changed in 20 years' time.

"You are not my better," she said quietly, but with conviction, staring at the dark haired boy levelly. She had no interest in needlessly antagonizing an ill-mannered Slytherin, but she was also fundamentally unable to let herself be talked to in such a way without comment.

"Aren't I?" he asked, raising a thin, dark eyebrow.

"No," Hermione said, attempting a valiant, and mostly successful, effort to conceal the tremors in her voice. "You're not."

"How dare you!" the Slytherin said furiously, raising his wand, eyes glinting with outrage, "You foul, little creature, I'll-"

"Avery," interrupted a cold voice, stilling the Slytherin completely. "What's this?"

The owner of the cold voice drifted closer, swanning out of the shadows to reveal himself unmistakably as Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione bit her lip nervously. She'd registered the elder Malfoy's disconcerting presence the moment she'd begun her 1973 Hogwart's term, recognizing him at the Welcoming Feast and quickly looking away, not wanting the older Slytherin to catch her eyes lingering on him overly long. Lucius Malfoy was one of the few people from this time that Hermione was _positive_ was a future Death Eater (it was more than mere suspicion, she was _certain_ of his affiliations), and so far she'd managed to avoid an encounter with him. It hadn't been difficult, as she was a third year Gryffindor, and he a seventh year Slytherin. They had no classes together, and they hardly ran in the same circles; he'd been easy to avoid. She'd heard Snape mention him a few times, undercurrents of awe and fear in his voice that led Hermione to believe the younger Slytherin saw Malfoy as some kind of mentor, or would have if Lucius had deigned to pay him any attention.

She wasn't sure how to take his addition to this situation, only hoping that he wouldn't make it more dangerously volatile than it already was. He was a Prefect, Hermione knew, and pragmatic, she could discern, given the way he'd abandoned the Dark Lord's cause (outwardly, at least), claimed imperious and bought his way into the ministry's good books after You Know Who's fall. Perhaps he would exercise a moderating effect here tonight, and reign his fellow Slytherin in. Not for Hermione's sake, of course, but for the sake of practicality and his image. The Malfoy's usually liked to maintain at least the appearance of respectability, as far as she could tell, and standing by and allowing for the torment of a young girl at the hands of one of his fellow housemate's was hardly respectable, at least in most circles of the wizarding world. Though maybe not the ones in which Lucius Malfoy was currently running.

He was a seventh year, old enough where it was quite possible that he was already a Death Eater, or at least being courted by You Know Who and his ilk. Hermione wasn't clear enough on the timeline of the Dark Lord's rise to know if he'd already been actively recruiting among purebloods at Hogwarts in 1973, but it certainly didn't seem entirely out of the realm of possibility. And she herself had personal experience with the fact that Lucius Malfoy had no qualms about hurting young girls. He'd slipped Ginny Riddle's diary purposely, causing irreparable harm to the youngest Weasley and almost killing her, seemingly just for his own amusement. Of course he'd been older then, hardened by the war and whatever terrible things he had done during it in service of You Know Who. The Lucius Malfoy of the 1990's was also safely ensconced in the realms of power in England's magical community; highly influential at the Ministry, on the Board of Governors at Hogwarts, and entirely secure in his position as the scion of one of the most famous pureblood families in wizarding Britain. He wasn't so established now, here in 1973, and perhaps he would be more cautious as a result. But that wasn't something Hermione could depend on.

"Lucius," Avery greeted him. "I was just educating Hogwarts' newest, unexpected resident about how she ought to treat her betters. The insolent little bitch ran right into me, and hasn't even had the decency to apologize, if you can imagine."

"I see," Malfoy said, his voice measured, eyes flicking between Avery and Hermione, assessing. Eventually, after having appraised them for an unsettling, lingering moment, Malfoy settled on an expression of casual interest. A slight quirk of his thin lips betrayed his faint amusement.

"Well do continue, Avery," Malfoy invited his fellow Slytherin, "in your process of elucidation." He gestured at the dark haired boy, his motion vaguely encouraging, before leaning back against the stone wall of the corridor, taking up the position of an observer.

Hermione shifted nervously. It seemed that despite his position as a Prefect, Malfoy was going to do nothing to stop the situation. She'd hardly thought it likely that he'd intercede on her behalf against a fellow Slytherin; Hermione wasn't an idiot. But she supposed she had held out some slim, naïve hope that whatever his personal feelings towards Muggleborns and Gryffindors, Malfoy might, as a Prefect, feel some obligation to intervene. She had been wrong. It seemed he was quite content to let Avery continue on in taunting her, though Malfoy wasn't yet participating in the taunting himself.

"I thought Hogwarts was supposed to a prestigious institution," Avery was saying with a sneer. "There are enough filthy mudbloods running around this school already, and now they're letting them in by transfer as well? It's a travesty," he sneered.

Hermione said nothing in response to this, not wanting to further anger the Slytherin, especially now that Malfoy had established that he was going to be anything but helpful. The Slytherin Prefect seemed more amused than anything, certainly not inclined to put a stop to Avery's hateful monologue any time soon, the content of which was really quite tediously cliché. She'd heard worse and more original insults from a 12 year old Draco Malfoy back in the 1990's. Not that she had any plans on sharing this critique with Avery or Draco's father. Hermione simply clutched tightly at her wand, her knuckles white around the base as she gripped it, for reassurance more than anything else. She didn't actually think Avery was going to attack her in any manner that went beyond unoriginal, verbal invective about how she and her kind were polluting the wizarding race and ruining magic for the _real_ witches and wizards—namely purebloods.

Hermione was now attempting to tune Avery out, focusing on his body for signs of potential movement (potential attack) rather than on the nasty diatribe against Muggleborns which he was currently caught up in. Every time he said that word foul word though—mudblood—it cut vividly across her consciousness, embedding itself harshly in Hermione's psyche and interrupting her process of attempted disassociation.

"Oi!" came the shout of a new voice, further disrupting Hermione and rendering her attempts to distance herself from the situation in mind, if not body, completely and utterly useless once and for all.

"What's going on here?" demanded an indignant and all too familiar voice. Loudly. Sirius Black was always so incredibly loud. It made him irritatingly difficult to ignore.

"Unbelievable," Hermione muttered under her breath, turning to find that, just as she had feared, a rather heated looking Sirius Black had arrived on the scene, materializing seemingly out of nowhere and looking entirely too eager for a fight. If the arrival of Malfoy hadn't exactly helped the situation, the Slytherin Prefect hadn't escalated things either. Judging by the charged look in Sirius' eyes and his already clenched fists, one of which was clamped eagerly around his wand, she doubted she could expect the same lack of escalation from him.

"Well, if it isn't Blood Traitor Black come rushing in to defend the mudblood," Avery lilted, his tone one of sinister sing song. The tall boy dragged his eyes from Hermione, switching his focus from her to Sirius. "You couldn't be more of a disgustingly, Gryffindor cliché if you tried, could you, Black? " he spat unpleasantly, fingering his wand.

"You'd know all about being a disgusting cliché, wouldn't you Avery?" Sirius growled lowly in response, inching subtly forward until he stood slightly in front of Hermione, raising his wand threateningly. "Don't they have you engaged to your first cousin now?" he taunted. "Bit close to home, isn't it? But it looks like you're only too happy to continue the generations of inbreeding which have so irrevocably damaged your brain."

Avery snarled in rage at the insult, raising his own wand. Hermione sucked in a nervous breath, unconsciously reaching out to clutch tightly at Sirius' forearm. A feeling of unease began to twist in her stomach, and Hermione tossed a desperate look at Malfoy, hoping that as a Prefect, even a Slytherin one, he'd do something to stop this confrontation before it went beyond mere insults. But the older boy simply continued to watch the scene unfold impassively, a look of detached interest on his haughty face.

"You're a good little pureblood soldier, aren't you Avery?" Sirius was saying, eying the other boy with tangible hatred as he continued to goad him. "Going to marry whomever Mummy and Daddy pick out for you? Even if it constitutes incest? We can only pray you don't have any children."

"And what children will you have, Black?" Avery asked bitingly, glancing obviously between Sirius and Hermione, his eyes lingering on the place where Hermione grasped the Black heir's forearm. "Nasty, little mudblood whelps; a series of bitches and bastards to further pollute the wizarding race?"

Sirius' jaw tightened, and Hermione dug her nails sharply into his arm, driven by a combination of fear and desire to restrain him from doing anything more rash than he already had.

"You'll want to be careful, Avery," Sirius warned, "If you keep using that word, I might just do the wizarding world a favor and hex your undersized bollocks right off."

"You've got a mouth on you, Black!" Avery hissed, an angry snake; little specks of spittle flying from his pursed mouth as he spewed threats at Sirius. "You'd better be careful what enemies you make with it, before we deem it necessary to shut you up permanently."

Hermione gasped, turning to Lucius Malfoy and appealing to him directly out of sheer desperation. "You're a Prefect," she breathed, aghast at his lack of action despite herself. "You should stop this"

The young form of Lucius Malfoy turned to look at Hermione, his silver eyes, so like his sons would be, icy and filled with disdain.

"Don't deign to speak to me, you filthy, little mudblood chit," he drawled, and Hermione could feel his disgust for her almost like a palpable, physical force, radiating toward her in waves. At his remark Avery burst into unpleasantly loud laughter.

Hermione bristled with rage, that awful word, _mudblood_ , having been hurled at her far too many times for one encounter. Coming from Lucius Malfoy, father of a boy who would, in another life time, taunt Hermione hatefully time and time again with the slur, it was too much. And he was a _Prefect_! This went beyond bullying; it was a blatant disregard for his oath and his responsibilities to the school! Hermione seethed, her fists curling in anger at the very thought of such negligence and disrespect for his position on the part of the Slytherin Prefect.

With these thoughts swirling chaotically around in her mind, Hermione found herself striding across the corridor and towards Malfoy almost unbidden, propelled as if by something outside herself. Acting without conscious thought or reason for once in her life, Hermione surged forward and in an explosion of pent of up rage and frustration, punched the elder boy squarely on the nose.

A sickening crunch echoed off the stone walls of the corridor, and blood began to gush from Malfoy's wrenched nose.

In the ensuing shocked silence, Hermione edged slowly away from Malfoy, resuming her place next to Sirius, who, like the other two boys, was now staring at her in stunned disbelief. Slowly she raised her hands, one of them now throbbing distinctly, to cover her mouth, which had formed a round, 'o' of shock. She, Hermione Granger, had just punched a Prefect!

Malfoy had begun to wipe delicately at his face, his ever present sneer unimpeded despite the fact that blood now flowed freely from his thin, aristocratic nose. Ever after, much to the general satisfaction of Hermione and the Marauders, said nose would remain slightly crooked.

"The mudblood has resorted to tasteless forms of muggle violence, why am I not surprised?" Malfoy mused softly, staring coldly at Hermione, who remained in a state of shock. His quiet, measured anger was in stark contrast to the aggressive rage of Avery, whom Malfoy had stalled from returning Hermione's violence with simply a raised hand and threatening look. It seemed the seventh year Prefect carried great authority in Slytherin, so easy was it for him to quell Avery, even despite the other boy's great anger.

"Detention, Miss Granger, for your despicable display of violence against a Prefect. You're lucky I don't inform your Head of House."

Sirius, who had been gawping at Hermione in stunned amazement since she had punched Malfoy, was finally shaken from his awe by this statement from the Slytherin.

"That's a crock of shite!" he snarled. "McGonagall would fucking throttle you if she knew what you just called her, and you know it Malfoy!"

With an air of irritation, Malfoy pulled his cold, assessing gaze from Hermione in order to pin it on Sirius.

"Detention for you as well, Black," he pronounced, causing Sirius to gasp in outrage. "And 20 points from Gryffindor for your disrespect. Now get out of my sight, both of you." he said, effectively dismissing them.

"Come, Avery," he snapped, wiping once more at his still bleeding nose, before striding away into the darkness of the corridor, leaving a stunned Hermione and an equally stunned and angry Sirius Black in his wake.

"Fucking tossers," Sirius spat, glaring malevolently at the backs of the two retreating Slytherins.

"You alright?" he asked, turning unsurely to Hermione. He didn't know how Granger would react to anything he might try to do to comfort her, given their short but combative history. And also the fact that she seemed to completely despise him. Not that Sirius knew what to do or say to comfort her anyway. He was utterly shite at dealing with emotional women, you could just ask his cousins. Granger's silence was dragging on, and Sirius was just opening his mouth to inform her that all Slytherin's were gits, when she finally responded to his query about her wellbeing.

"I..I, yes, I'm alright," Hermione said, shakily. She felt a bit dazed, actually. She had just punched a Prefect in the face! She had punched Lucius Malfoy in the face! She couldn't fathom what had come over her. In her own time, Lucius Malfoy had been a very powerful man with undeniable connections to the dark arts and You Know Who's old regime, despite his influence with the Ministry and high placement in the magical community. It was possible she had just made an incredibly dangerous enemy in this time. How could she have been so stupidly impulsive?

If she had been trying to stay under the radar, punching future, possibly current, Death Eaters in the face was certainly not the way to do so. If He Who Must Not Be Named _was_ recruiting at Hogwarts in 1973, Lucius Malfoy would have been a prime and obvious target for him. If Riddle was already active in such a way in 1973, if his influence had grown to the point where he could successfully court members of prominent pureblood families, those of certain political proclivities which suggested they'd be amenable to him and his cause, Lucius Malfoy would have certainly been on his list of recruits. But Hermione simply couldn't remember if the Dark Lord _had_ been active in such a way all the way back in 1973! She'd read extensively about his rise to power, and now, when it mattered more than ever, more than any History of Magic exam she had ever taken, she couldn't remember vital specifics! What was _wrong_ with her?

"Look, are you sure you're alright, Granger?" Sirius was asking, reaching out hesitantly to grip her shoulder. His words felt distant, located somewhere beyond the haze of Hermione's rapidly increasing panic. She barely registered his touch. Her breathing was becoming erratic. In fact, Hermione was practically hyperventilating, much to the alarm of Sirius.

"Why can't I _remember_?" Hermione wailed desperately, gripping Sirius' hand like a vice.

"Remember what?" Sirius asked bemusedly. "Never mind, you need to calm down. It's alright! You punched Malfoy in the face!" He reminded her, mistakenly thinking, in the way of a clueless teenage boy, that this would have a soothing effect on the girl. "You'll be a legend!"

"Oh, but I don't want to be a legend!" Hermione moaned, tugging at Sirius' hand in her distress. "I just want to be anonymous!"

Even if Lucius Malfoy was not yet a Death Eater, he was going to become one, and a high ranking one at that. She knew that for certain. And Hermione had just given him a very vivid reason to remember her in the form of a broken nose. She moaned once again.

Sirius was becoming increasingly confused and alarmed by the state of the girl before him.

"Are you upset about…what he called you?" he asked awkwardly, thinking of the horrible slur Malfoy had used against Granger.

"I've been called a mudblood before," Hermione said quietly, having trouble fathoming her extreme reaction to a term which she had heard so many times before. "But I suppose it just built up, and he wasn't doing anything to stop you and that other boy fighting! He's a Prefect, he had a duty to intervene! But oh, I shouldn't have punched him!" she cried hysterically. "How could I have punched him?"

"I dunno, but it was fucking awesome, Granger!" Sirius cheered, before deflating abruptly, an expression of righteous anger overtaking his aristocratic face. "Who else has been calling you a-,"he faltered. " _That?"_

Hermione sighed heavily, tugging once more at Sirius' hand, "Never mind, Black, let's just go back to the common room. It's almost curfew, and the last thing we need is to get caught out by Filch and receive even more detentions."

She began to drag him roughly in the direction of Gryffindor tower.

"Oi!" Sirius protested. "It's only detention, Granger, relax!"

Hermione stopped abruptly, causing Sirius to stumble a bit in her wake, almost crashing into her. She spun around to glare at him. "You don't understand!" she shouted.

"Clearly not," Sirius muttered, mystified. Hermione resumed dragging him down the corridor and he let himself be led. He wasn't going to try to bother reasoning with her anymore when she was acting like such a nutter.

When they finally reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione snapped the password at the Fat Lady (prompting an aggrieved look from the woman), before scrambling through the portrait hole, pulling Sirius in along with her.

Together, they stumbled into the common room just on the wrong side of curfew, the pair of them looking rather the worse for wear. Hermione was in a frenzied state as a result of their encounter with the Slytherins, fretting anxiously about the possible catastrophic results of her actions. Sirius, for his part, appeared to still be in shock. Heedless of the stares their dramatic entrance had garnered from their fellow Gryffindor's, Hermione barreled single-mindedly across the common room toward girls' dorm, hauling a bewildered Sirius in tow behind her.

It was only when she had reached the stairs leading up to her dormitory that Hermione realized she was still holding Sirius' hand. Horrified, and suddenly conscious of the stares of their housemates, Hermione flung his hand violently away from her. Flushing a graphic shade of red that would have put any of the Weasley's to shame, the witch then stormed up the stairs, leaving Sirius Black and a roomful of gaping Gryffindors behind her

James, who had been in the midst of penning a tedious and almost certainly useless History of Magic essay, was happy to be distracted by the spectacle which had just occurred. Especially since it happened to involve his best mate.

"What the bloody buggering hell was that?" he demanded of Sirius, who still was staring in the direction of the stairs to the girls' dormitory, despite the fact that Hermione had vanished up them already. "Did you…" and here, a rather comical expression of disbelief overtook James' face as the thought occurred to him. "Did you _snog_ Granger?"

"What?" Sirius snapped, spinning around to face his friend. "No!" he denied, at the same time that Remus said, "Surely not."

"Hey," Sirius protested, shooting a petulant look at Remus. "We could have been!"

Remus raised a skeptical eyebrow at his friend. "Sirius," he said patiently, as though explaining something obvious to a small and rather dense child, "Hermione dislikes you. Profoundly."

"Well," Sirius huffed. "Yeah. But I hardly-"

"If you weren't snogging Granger what were you doing with her?" James interrupted loudly, cutting Sirius off before the conversation devolved into a defense of his mate's prowess with the opposite sex.

"You were _supposed_ to be nicking snacks from the kitchens for us." Peter complained, seemingly put out over Sirius' failure to return with food.

Sirius rolled his eyes theatrically. "I was on my way to the kitchens, when I ran into Granger cornered by a couple of snakes."

James' eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Avery and Malfoy." Sirius relayed darkly. "Avery was insulting her, he had his wand out and everything. He was threatening her, and Malfoy was just standing there like the great git he is letting Avery go at her. Obviously I couldn't just pass by. Two against one is hardly sporting, especially her being a girl and all. Had to go even the odds a bit."

James nodded seriously.

"Avery was being really nasty, calling her a mudblood and shit," Sirius said quietly, looking down.

Peter gasped at the slur, and Remus, normally the calmest of the boys, clenched his fist in anger.

"Yeah, it was pretty bad. When I came over, Avery and I started trading insults, and Malfoy was still just standing there watching it all. I think Granger actually thought he might do something to stop it."

James snorted, while Remus simply shook his head.

"I know," Sirius said, sharing a sober look with his fellow Marauders. "But you know Granger, faith in authority figures and all that. Eventually, she asks Malfoy why, as a Prefect, he's not doing anything to break up the fight. Real indignant and self-righteous about it." He explained, smiling a bit at the recollection. "Malfoy just looks down his nose at her like she's the shit beneath his shoes, and then he called her a mudblood too"

Remus shook his head again. Peter's eyes were wide.

"But then, get this!" Sirius continued, grim demeanor vanishing and excitement overtaking his voice as he neared the climax of his story. "Something about Malfoy calling her a mudblood must have set Granger off, because after he says it she gets this…" Sirius searched for the right word. " _Possessed_ look on her face, and the next thing I know she hauls off and punches Malfoy on the nose!"

"No!" James said loudly, and Peter let out a high pitched gasp of disbelief.

"You're not serious?" Remus asked faintly.

" _Dead_ serious, mate," Sirius affirmed with satisfaction, not even stopping to make the obvious joke. "I think she broke it, there was blood everywhere!"

"Wicked!" James declared, almost giddy. "I can't _wait_ to see him, if we're lucky he'll be permanently deformed!"

"I know!" Sirius agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "Granger got all freaked out about it though," he said with a frown. "I tried to tell her it was worth the detention, but she wouldn't listen to me. Oh, we both have detention now, and we lost house points. Or at least I did," he added as an aside. James shrugged, as though this hardly mattered given the circumstances, which is exactly how Sirius felt about it. If anything was worth a detention and losing some house points, it was punching Malfoy in the face! Even to witness it had been a privilege and thing of beauty.

"Granger was acting like it was the end of the world or something though," Sirius muttered.

"She's probably worried about retaliation from the Slytherins," Remus pointed out practically. "Malfoy won't take a punch in the face lightly, especially not one from a Gryffindor muggleborn three years younger than him."

Sirius snorted. "Yeah, because it's humiliating. Who knew Granger had it in her?" He marveled, shaking his head in admiration. He didn't exactly like the girl, and she certainly didn't like him, but he had to respect anyone who punched a Slytherin in the face. Especially one who was as great a git as Malfoy.

"I bet Malfoy'll keep it hushed up though actually. Wouldn't want to damage his big, bad reputation." Sirius paused here to roll his eyes. "Avery's the only witness in Slytherin, and he's well under Malfoy's thumb if the way he acted tonight is anything to go by."

Remus hummed thoughtfully. "You're probably right Sirius, but Malfoy will still be angry."

"Too right," James agreed. "We'll just have to keep an eye on Granger, make sure Malfoy and the snakes don't try anything with her."

Sirius nodded in grim affirmation. "We should let the Prewitt brother's know as well. They'll look out for her.

* * *

Meanwhile, Hermione had just burst into the third year girls' dormitory, startling Lily from her own History of Magic essay.

"What's wrong?" the redhead demanded immediately, concerned by the other girls unusually frazzled manner.

"Oh, Lily," she moaned. "I'm afraid I've done something terribly stupid!"

"Hermione, what?" Lily asked worriedly, sitting up in bed, her essay forgotten for the time being.

"I punched Lucius Malfoy in the face!" Hermione wailed hysterically. "I think I broke his nose!"

"I'm sorry, you what?" Lily asked in astonishment.

"Punched! Lucius Malfoy!" Hermione cried, ululating wildly.

"Hermione, he's a seventh year Prefect!" Lily breathed, aghast.

"I know, I know," Hermione cried, wringing her hands anxiously. "Of course Black thought it was amazing-"

"Sirius Black?" Lily demanded, and Hermione nodded distractedly. "You were with Sirius when you punched Malfoy?" Hermione nodded again, and Lily stared at her, utterly gob smacked at this turn of events. Granted, she had only known Hermione for a short time, but the other girl was usually so level headed! Now she was gallivanting around with Sirius Black, whom, by Lily's estimation, Hermione hated more than she herself hated James Potter, and punching Slytherin Prefects in the face! "Hermione, how did this happen?" Lily asked, totally bewildered.

Hermione settled on the bed next to Lily and began relating the story to her red headed friend. To her surprise she found that it was actually quite helpful to talk about it with Lily. The more of the story that Hermione unloaded, the better she felt, and by the time she was finished telling the other witch what had happened, she was considerably calmer then she had been.

"They really called you a mudblood?" Lily asked softly when Hermione had finished, and the other witch nodded in confirmation. "That's vile," Lily said fiercely, her vibrant green eyes sparkling with anger on behalf of her friend.

Hermione bit her lip. "Even so, I shouldn't have resorted to physical violence. It was incredibly undignified of me, not to mention foolish."

"Maybe so," Lily acknowledged. "But I still think it was badass!"

Hermione smiled weakly at her. "You do?" she asked tentatively.

"Absolutely," Lily said firmly. "Teach anyone else to think twice before the call you a mudblood! _And_ I think Sirius Black thought it was pretty badass too, so I'm not the only one," she observed archly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, and now I've got detention with him," she said with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest mulishly. "Just what I need."

Lily shot her friend a hesitating glance. "Hermione…can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Hermione said promptly.

"Why do you hate Black so much?"

Hermione stiffened. "Why do you hate Potter so much?" she countered.

It was Lily's turn to roll her eyes now. "Because he's cruel to Severus, he flirts with me incessantly, and he's an all-around giant toe rag. You know this." She moved a strand of hair behind her ear, looking determined to get this out, despite what appeared to be Hermione's lack of receptiveness to hearing it. But Lily was perplexed; Hermione's behavior around Black was downright bizarre, and she simply didn't understand why. It just didn't make sense!

"Black doesn't flirt with you, or at least not anymore. Not since he realized you loathe him, given that you're as about subtle about it as a bludger to the face. Unlike Potter, it seems Black has the ability to take a hint," Lily said wryly. "Granted, he's obviously still a bit of a toe rag, but no more so than Potter, and you don't seem to have a particular problem with him." She sighed. "Look Hermione, I'm hardly the biggest fan of Black or any of the other so called 'marauders', but it sounds like he really stood up for you tonight, even if he was a bit reckless about it."

Hermione was picking fixedly at a loose thread in Lily's duvet, attempting to ground herself. Despite her efforts, she found herself helpless against the cascade of confusing and troubled thoughts which had been lurking in the back of her mind since her and Black's encounter with the Slytherins, unleashed by Lily's uncomfortably blunt observations. Why _had_ Sirius stood up for her? He should have been as disgusted by her as Malfoy and Avery were, Muggleborn that she was. Instead, he had seemed disgusted by the Slytherins, and particularly disturbed by their repeated use of the word 'mudblood'. Thinking back, he hadn't even been able to bring himself to repeat the slur to her, fumbling awkwardly around it despite what must have been his familiarity with the term; his upbringing being what it was. Black had seemed…concerned for her, and genuinely so, despite her behavior towards him since she had arrived in the 1970's, which she herself could admit had been quite harsh up to this point, even if she did feel it was justified given Black's future actions.

But this wasn't the future, this was the past. And Lily was right, Black had stood up for her tonight; put himself between her and the Slytherins. If the behavior hadn't been coming from Sirius Black, she would have said that, objectively, his actions tonight could almost be considered sweet. Quite chivalrous, really, if one were inclined to view the threat of violence on one's behalf in a positive light, which Hermione wasn't sure she was, but still. In the heat of the moment, she had felt aligned with Sirius. She had felt that he was unequivocally on her side. She had felt safe with him. But how could that be? Horrifically, she could now distinctly remember clutching at his forearm in distress. Of all the things! How could she possibly have behaved in such a way toward a future Death Eater and murderer? How could she have reached to him for comfort? Shouldn't she have intuitive, self-preservation instincts that protected against such interactions?

Hermione _had_ seen something unsettling in Sirius' eyes tonight; a dark, dangerous anger equal to or surpassing anything Avery or Malfoy possessed. There was real rage behind his creatively nasty insults. It was undeniably potent for someone his age, at least in Hermione's experience. But that fierce anger of Sirius', which she sensed had the potential to erupt into violence, hadn't been directed at her. It had been directed at Avery and Malfoy. Indeed, it had felt almost protective. Lily was right about one thing, it didn't make sense. Nothing did.

"Nothing makes sense," she said out loud. "I don't know what's real anymore."

Unsure what to make of this rather cryptic response, Lily resolved to chalk it up to the traumatic events of Hermione's evening catching up with her. The red head was unable to fathom any other explanation.

"Let's get you some murtlap essence for that hand," she said finally. "It'll sting like something else come morning if you don't soak it."

Hermione hummed in agreement, and if she was a bit dazed and distant for the rest of the night, Lily supposed that was only to be expected.

* * *

Maybe she won't hate me as much now, Sirius mused to himself later that night, after the others had fallen asleep, thinking of the way Granger had clutched at his arm during their confrontation with Avery and Malfoy. The way she'd let him edge in front of her, allowing him to shield her from Avery and Malfoy, accepting his protection against the Slytherin's even if she hadn't been fully conscious of doing it. And then she'd grabbed desperately at his hand, and she hadn't let go of it the whole way back to Gryffindor Tower. Not until she'd realized that she'd tried to drag him upstairs to the girls' dorm with her. Granger had a surprisingly strong grip for such a slight girl.

* * *

 _An: I can't resist parallels, or badass Hermione_ _reviews are love y'all._


	11. The Past Isn't Dead

Chapter 11: The Past Isn't Dead

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione received not just one, but two, missives. One was the expected notification about her coming detention, which she learned was to take place the following Thursday down in the dungeons with Professor Slughorn. Her and Sirius would be helping the head of Slytherin House prepare potions ingredients. Joy of joys, Hermione thought sarcastically, wrinkling her nose in anticipation of what she was sure would be a highly unpleasant evening. Preparing potions ingredients was often a rather revolting endeavor under the best of circumstances, the accompanying smells and slimes of the materials creating a disgusting, miasmatic ambiance as you worked. And when you considered the dismal company Hermione was going to be subjected to during her detention, the prospect was made even worse.

Her feelings concerning Sirius Black were a muddled mess of confusion in the wake of the events of the previous night. Hermione was not one to easily admit that she had made a mistake, a character flaw which Ron had always been a bit too keen to point out when the opportunity arose. Besides which, she usually didn't make mistakes in the first place, so when it did happen, she tended to be loath to acknowledge it. And if Hermione was going to be forced she reevaluate her attitude toward, and treatment of, Sirius Black she certainly didn't want to be around said irritating Marauder while she was doing so. Damn Black for being so not horrible the night before, and damn Lily for pointing it out and forcing her to acknowledge it! Hermione resisted the urge to glare at the red head. Her brain hurt; emotional problems concerning human relations were far more taxing than academic problems, she decided.

Hermione stuffed the detention slip into her bag with irritation, resisting the urge to sigh despondently. It was far too early in the morning to indulge in such self-pitying dramatics. Instead, she turned curiously to her other letter. It'd been delivered along with her detention notice by a terse looking school owl, so she could hardly hope for a cheerful note from Hagrid.

Opening the missive, she found a short, cryptic note penned in a script that was loopy, but neat.

" _I believe it has become prudent that we meet. Come to my office at 7 o'clock this evening. The password is strudel."_

It was signed _"Albus Dumbledore"._

Hermione frowned. Why, she wondered fretfully, did Dumbledore want to meet with her? And why _now_? Had he discovered a way to send her back to her proper time? Had he discovered that that was impossible? Or was it nothing to do with her unique temporal situation at all? Had he somehow heard about her altercation with Lucius Malfoy, and was now intent on chastising her over it? Her stomach clenched as her mind ruminated worriedly over the various possibilities.

She was interrupted from her anxious musings about why Dumbledore suddenly felt it was "prudent" that they meet when Dorcas arrived at the breakfast table; a flurry of blonde hair and commotion.

"So," her dormmate announced, dropping her bookbag carelessly onto the bench next to Hermione and Lily, where it landed with a loud thump, causing Hermione to jump slightly and drop her note from the Headmaster into her porridge. Dorcas was either heedless or oblivious, taking a seat next to Lily and barreling on with her news.

"I have intel," Dorcas informed them significantly, using her preferred word for gossip. "After your bizarre, little display with Black last night, Hermione, almost all of Gryffindor tower is convinced that the two of you have resolved the considerable tension between yourselves via aggressive snogging."

Hermione, who had been occupied with fishing the note from Dumbledore out of her breakfast cereal, intent on stowing the now somewhat soggy missive in her bag along with her detention notice, was stopped cold by this pronouncement of Dorcas'. In point of fact, the curly haired witch choked on her toast.

"That's completely wrong, not to mention utterly horrifying!" Hermione sputtered the moment her esophagus had cleared itself enough of the toast to allow her to speak.

"Well, I wouldn't go right to _horrifying,_ " Dorcas said, plating herself some sausages. "Black's got a very nice set of shoulders on him. His arms are rather nice too, come to that. I think it's all the quidditch. He's one of the beaters for the Gryffindor team, did you know, Hermione?"

"No, I didn't," Hermione said, adopting the prim tone that she tended to rely on when she was feeling vulnerable or defensive. "Black's physique isn't the problem, it's more his abhorrent personality that I find fault with."

"Ahh," Dorcas said, nodding understandingly. "So you don't have a problem with Black's physique then?"

"That's not what I—," Hermione cut herself off, sputtering once more. Her face had gone the color of strawberry jam. "If you're so keen, Dorcas, why don't _you_ snog him!" she finished, rather weakly, if Lily's unimpressed snort was anything to go by.

"I've other prospects," Dorcas said loftily, looking suddenly mysterious. "Besides, I prefer the quiet ones myself. They tend to be much more fun to corrupt," the blonde said, winking saucily at them.

"You're a menace, Dorcas," Lily accused, amusement sparking in her green eyes.

Dorcas nodded, accepting Lily's assertion as her due. "Thanks, Lils, I do try," she said airily, before proceeding to flip her hair ostentatiously, smacking a Ravenclaw who happened to be passing behind in the face with her blonde mane. He didn't seem to mind.

"I still think it's a pity you and Black didn't actually snog," Dorcas said to Hermione, prompting an exasperated eyeroll from the other girl.

"What!?" Dorcas demanded, typically unashamed of her opinions. "A good snog would've been a right lot more fun then what actually happened, it seems to me! Though it still may have ended in detention for you and Black," she acknowledged with an offhand shrug. "But sometimes that's a necessary sacrifice. And besides," she continued unimpeded, despite the look of absolute horror on Hermione's face. "That boy is simply _brimming_ with barely suppressed rage, he could use an outlet."

"I'm the one who punched Malfoy in the face," Hermione pointed out flatly, forgetting that Dorcas didn't already know that bit. All Lily had said last night, when Dorcas and Mary had arrived in the dormitory, was that Hermine had been cornered by some Slytherins when Sirius happened upon her, and that the encounter had gotten nasty, resulting in detentions for both of the Gryffindors. Hermione had been too dazed at that point to offer any more of an explanation to her other dorm mates herself.

Dorcas' eyes widened minutely in shock at this new revelation concerning Malfoy. Composing herself remarkably quickly, she raised an eyebrow at Hermione. "Perhaps you could use an outlet as well," the blonde observed. "I'm seeing new sides of you yet, Hermione."

* * *

The day proved to be quite an aggravating one for Hermione. As Dorcas had warned at breakfast, the majority of their Gryffindor classmates were abuzz with heated speculation over what had happened leading up to her and Sirius' admittedly odd interaction in the common room the previous evening. Much to Hermione's immense frustration, the general consensus seemed to be that snogging had been involved. She had been forced to spend the entire morning loudly and emphatically refuting such outlandish claims, and by lunch she was both aggravated and exhausted.

Sirius, for his part, was doing absolutely nothing to help counter the slew of nefarious rumors currently swirling about the pair of them. Unless you counted slouching about looking surly and distracted, which was typical behavior from the Black heir as far as Hermione could tell, but wasn't all that typical as an after effect of snogging. Or so she assumed, given what she'd learned from glancing briefly and disdainfully at the backs of the trashy romance novels Parvati and Lavender had frequently left scattered all about their dorm back in the 1990's. Perhaps Black was being more helpful than Hermione had previously been inclined to give him credit for, walking around all day in such a strop.

She was somewhat puzzled by Black's moodiness, truth be told. If anything, Sirius had seemed to almost enjoy what had happened last night between themselves and the two Slytherins. He'd been angry, of course, and self-righteously defensive on her behalf, but some people thrived on such things, and Black had clearly been right in his element. Hermione had almost been able to feel him thrumming with the energy of a heady adrenaline rush, clutching at him as she had been. She'd been able to see up close how he relished in verbally eviscerating Avery. Black was one who liked a good fight, that much Hermione could tell. So it was a mystery to her why he was in such a bad mood this morning, when he'd been in a perfectly good one the night before. She supposed it was possible that it had nothing to do with what had happened last night; Black had a tendency to be quite moody as a general rule, or so she had observed in the short time she'd known him. He was very mercurial. It was egocentric of Hermione to assume that last night's incident was consuming him as much as it was her.

"You're staring at Black," Dorcas observed matter-of-factly, taking a judgmental seeming bite out of her turkey sandwich.

"Again," Lily added, pinning Hermione with a significant look.

Hermione startled, driven from her thoughts. She tore her eyes away from Black, where they had indeed been trained, and quickly refocused them on her own lunch. She took a delicate bite of roasted carrot, patting her mouth primly with her napkin when she had finished chewing. Lily and Dorcas observed this affected little display of exaggerated dignity from Hermione with raised eyebrows and varying degrees of amusement.

"Shut up, the pair of you," Hermione said to them eventually, and her two traitorous friends burst into giggles.

* * *

Just a bit down the table, Sirius Black's dark eyes were fixed moodily on Hermione Granger, unbeknownst to said inexplicable, infuriating, usually so observant girl. His penetrating, fixated stare may have gone unnoticed by its subject, but it did not go unnoticed by his fellow Marauders.

"You're staring at Granger," Remus pointed out to Sirius in a low voice.

"Again," James added significantly.

Sirius huffed and rolled his eyes, before resettling them on Hermione. "Yes, and?" he said tersely, not looking away from the curly haired muggleborn.

"It's a little obsessive, mate," James pointed out.

"I don't understand her!" Sirius complained, finally dragging his eyes from Hermione, whom had been watching with morbid fascination as she folded her napkin in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of a high society pureblood girl.

Peter shrugged helplessly in response to Sirius' complaint. He didn't understand girls either.

"I don't understand why you helped her last night, Sirius" the smallest Marauder volunteered, his pudgy face screwed up in an expression of puzzlement. "She's been a right bitch to you."

The rest of the Marauders stared at him.

"You really are a rat bastard, aren't you, Pete?" Sirius snapped eventually after a moment of uncomfortable silence, not bothering to hide his disdain for what Peter had said. The state of irritation he'd been in all day was giving him little patience for his friend's stupidity.

"Well she has!" Peter protested, glancing from Marauder to Marauder in search of a sympathetic face. He didn't find one.

Sirius sighed, pushing himself up from the table and walking off without a word, abandoning his lunch. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Peter's particularly obtuse brand of stupidity today, much less attempt to rectify it by explaining things to him. He'd leave that tedious obligation to James and Remus. Besides, he rather felt like being alone. Sirius shouldered his way roughly around a small Hufflepuff as he exited the Great Hall, oblivious to her squeak of dismay. With the mood he was currently in, it was likely he wouldn't have bothered with an apology to the girl even if he had noticed her. As it was, Sirius was currently too lost in his own thoughts to be overly cognizant of other people. If they couldn't tell by the look on his face to get out of his way, they probably deserved to be run into anyhow.

It was Granger that had him distracted like this; his head all in a mix of confusion. She was odd, there was really no other way to say it. And Sirius wasn't sure if all of Hermione's strangeness could be written off as residual trauma from the experience of whatever it was that had wiped out her entire family, no matter what Remus contended. She'd surprised him last night, in more ways than one. Peter wasn't wrong when he'd pointed out that Granger had been a right bitch to him. Hermione had been unexpectedly unpleasant toward him ever since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, and it rankled. Usually Sirius only experienced that type of naked, unbridled hostility from the likes of his mother. He shuddered. There was a comparison he didn't want to broach. But Peter underestimated Sirius' sense of common decency if he thought that he'd leave Hermione at the mercy of Avery and Malfoy just because she'd been nasty to him. Sirius shook his head. It wasn't just girls Pete didn't understand.

Granger had hardly seemed like herself the night before. For Godric's sake, she'd punched Malfoy in the face! And even more shockingly, she'd treated him not like a venomous and potentially dangerous slug, as she usually did, but almost like a human being. Granger had been scared. Of Malfoy and Avery, of the possible repercussions of the situation, Sirius wasn't sure. But she'd been scared, and she'd reached for him; clutching first at his forearm, and later at his hand. Granger had certainly never touched him before, always regarding him as though if she got too close she might burst into flame or catch whatever noxious disease she clearly thought he had. But last night she'd almost clung to him. It had been entirely unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, and Sirius still wasn't sure how he felt about it. What he did know, was that Granger confused the hell out of him and he didn't know what to make of her _or_ her strange behavior.

She'd spent most of the morning acting as if the thought of snogging him were the most repellent, horrifying concept which had ever entered her bushy haired head. He'd been forced to listen to her shrill and defensive denials that such a thing had ever taken place repeatedly throughout their morning classes. Girls' voices seemed to get higher and higher pitched in relation to how upset they were, Sirius had observed, and this was definitely true of Granger. He had found himself developing a headache quite quickly. As the morning wore on, and Granger's emphatic, disgusted denials of any snogging had continued unabated, Sirius also found himself struggling not to take offense. Not that he wanted to snog her either, but he thought Granger could do to seem a little bit less repulsed by the very idea. He did have reputation to maintain.

Sirius didn't like Granger, and he remained quite sure that the feeling was mutual on her part. But after what had happened last night, he couldn't help finding himself intrigued by the mysterious muggleborn girl. At least a little. Alright, a lot, Sirius admitted begrudgingly, if only to himself inside his own damn head. He wasn't sure whether he was tentatively looking forward to his detention with Granger, or all out dreading it. He'd thought he'd known what to expect from her. Clearly he'd been wrong.

* * *

As her meeting with Dumbledore that evening drew closer, Hermione grew increasingly anxious. She had been in 1973 for just under a month now, and she felt sure that the longer she remained here, the lesser her likelihood of returning to 1993 ahead of schedule. The idea of remaining here in this timeline for twenty years, until it caught up with the timeline she had previously occupied, was scarcely fathomable to Hermione. But the longer she remained in 1973, the more she was forced to reckon with the definite, dreadful possibility that she would be remaining here indefinitely. Dumbledore had not, as she had at first naively hoped, been able to return her to her proper place right away, and she was beginning to fear that despite the Headmaster's vast wisdom, he wasn't going to be able to return her there at all.

The insidious thought that perhaps time travel was like an instance of kidnapping had wormed its way into Hermione's brain. She knew, based on the true crime shows her parent's had sometimes indulged in on weekend evenings, and from her own determination to keep up on current events of both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, that if a victim of kidnapping wasn't successfully located and returned within the first 24 to 48 hours of their disappearance, the hope of them being returned in anything other than a body bag rapidly disintegrated. It was quite the morbid proposition to suppose that time travel was a similar situation, Hermione knew, but her mind had strayed there nonetheless.

There was, of course, also the possibility that her meeting with Dumbledore tonight was the result of him having found a solution to her problem; of the Headmaster having, in his brilliance, determined a way to send her back to 1993 after all. But Hermione wasn't holding her breath for such a positive outcome, much less pinning all her hopes on it. Frankly, she'd never been much of an optimist, and her tendency for realism had always served her well in the past. Perhaps it would continue to do so out of necessity of circumstance.

* * *

That evening found Hermione unable to concentrate properly on her homework, and furtively eyeing the clock. When it was nearing seven, she put away her homework, making excuses to her friends about wanting to get some air, and perhaps send an owl to Hagrid. Dorcas had waved her off, and Lily, who was deeply immersed in a charms essay, paused to smile at her before returning to her work. Mary was absent, so there was no need for Hermione to make additional excuses to the quiet brunet.

It seemed to Hermione that Mary had been making herself scarcer than usual, as of late. Spending less time with her, Lily and Dorcas outside of classes, and being very quiet at meals, never contributing much to their conversations. Hermione couldn't help but fear that her presence here in the 1970's had disrupted the previous friendship dynamic between her dormmates. Dorcas and Lily both had big personalities which made them impossible to ignore, and Hermione had quickly found herself bonding with them, despite the reservations she had about how forming relationships with them could potentially effect the timeline. But ever since her arrival in the 1970's Mary had seemed to fade evermore into the background, becoming more and more distant from the new trio of third year Gryffindor girls.

Hermione couldn't help but be troubled by it, on multiple levels. It had never been her intention to displace Mary among Lily and Dorcas. And she certainly didn't want to be the cause of anyone's social isolation, having previously experienced the pain of such a thing herself. Practically, she was also concerned about any effects on the timeline which might occur as the result of a weakened relationship between Lily, Mary and Dorcas. The girls were all still friendly with each other, but Mary seemed to be distancing herself more and more from them. Hermione was unsure what, if anything, she could or should do about the situation. In any case, she didn't have time to dwell on it now, not with her meeting with th Headmaster drawing ever nearer. She hurried along the corridor nervously, stopping when she arrived at the now familiar gargoyle which signified the entrance to Dumbledore's office, the ugly statue standing sentry before it and barring access to anyone who was not privy to its frequently in flux, frequently confectionary related password.

Hermione glanced at her watch. Seven on the nose. She took a deep breath, attempting to fortify herself. She'd been taking a lot of deep breaths since her arrival in 1973, but she remained a perpetual nervous wreck, so she wasn't sure how effective of a strategy that was. Nevertheless, the compulsion persisted.

"Strudel," she said to the Gargoyle, supplying the password Dumbledore had provided her with. The statue promptly move aside, granting her entrance. Climbing the twisted staircase which led to the Headmaster's office, Hermione felt as though she were weighted down with a kind of dreadful, nervous anticipation. Her legs were heavy, and the trek up the stairs seemed inordinately exhausting. Life in 1973 as a whole was inordinately exhausting, and she feared this meeting with Dumbledore would only result in further things to fuel her cycle of perpetual mental fatigue. But perhaps it would also provide a sense of finality, whatever conclusion the Headmaster had come to regarding her situation, if indeed he had come to one at all.

Hermione's confident knock on Dumbledore's door, when she finally came to stand before it, belied her true feelings about her imminent encounter with the Headmaster. But it was always good to put up a brave front, she felt, and so she did. Dumbledore bid her to enter, in that mysterious, melodious voice of his, and so she reluctantly let herself in to his office. Despite the less than ideal circumstances under which she found herself there, Hermione couldn't help but be awed anew by the quirky majesty of Dumbledore's domain. It reflected the personality of the man himself, Hermione thought as she studied the Headmaster. Tonight he had chosen to attire himself in a shockingly bright set of neon yellow robes which Hermione charitably would have chosen to describe as 'loud'. They featured flashing lightning bolts.

"Sit, child, please," Dumbledore invited her, and Hermione settled herself on the chair in front of his desk.

"I am sure you wish to know why it is I have called you here tonight, Hermione," Dumbledore said, pausing to bestow her with a soft, grandfatherly smile. "Quite simply, I wish to know how you are settling in."

Hermione blinked. Over the course of the day, she had built this meeting up to almost biblical proportions in her mind, expecting, in one form or another, to receive devastating, life altering news from the Headmaster. Only for Dumbledore to ask how she was settling in. Was he simply burying the lede, Hermione wondered, or had he really called her here to engage in idle chit chat, as though she were simply an ordinary transfer student whose wellbeing he was dutifully inquiring into?

"As well as can be expected, I think, Headmaster," Hermione replied eventually, her tone somewhat strangled.

"Good, good!" Dumbledore said cheerfully, retrieving a lemon drop from a tin on his desk and popping it in his mouth, before proffering the tin to Hermione. She shook her head in response to his wordless offering, having no appetite for sweets just at that moment.

"Headmaster, forgive me," Hermione heard herself saying, belatedly shocked at her own degree of boldness, "but I had assumed the reason you summoned me here was because you had an update on any progress you might have made in returning me to my original time. Or, lacking that, perhaps some words of wisdom in regards to my current…situation," she trailed off awkwardly, and began to fidget in her discomfort. Hermione wasn't used to being so abruptly direct with anyone, much less an authority figure as distinguished as Albus Dumbledore.

The Headmaster did not appear the least bit offended by her bluntness though. On the contrary he seemed rather pleasantly surprised, if not a little intrigued, and was now appraising Hermione in a thoughtful manner.

"The past is never dead, as they say, " Dumbledore pronounced suddenly, steepling his hands. "It's not even past."

Hermione frowned. "Professor, did you just quote William Faulkner?" she asked unsurely.

"Why yes!" Dumbledore said, his serious expression vanishing in an instant, replaced by a beaming, enthusiastic smile. The Headmaster appeared nothing short of utterly delighted that Hermione was familiar with the source material of his borrowed wisdom. "I've always much preferred Faulkner's work to that of Hemingway's myself, though I don't tend to make a habit of getting overly involved in muggle literary feuds," he related matter-of-factly.

Hermione stared at Dumbledore, speechless and bewildered. This conversation had gone in a direction she never could have anticipated. And if this was Professor Dumbledore's version of words of wisdom, did that mean he _hadn't_ made any progress towards sending her back to 1993, where she rightfully belonged? What exactly did his choice of borrowed phrase indicate? Was Dumbledore being infuriatingly cryptic on purpose? Obviously the past wasn't past, she was currently living in it! Did Dumbledore mean she would be forced to continue to do so? Hermione normally delighted in the discussion and analysis of literature, but she was beginning to develop a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach. She just couldn't shake the feeling that the Headmaster's borrowed words had an ominous implication.

"Do you have a preference?" Dumbledore inquired in regards, Hermione assumed, to the muggle authors. He paused to pop yet another lemon drop into his mouth, his third so far during the course of their conversation. Could magical folk get diabetes, Hermione wondered idly, thinking of Dumbledore's famous penchant for sweets. She'd have to check on that.

"Erm, Faulkner, I suppose," Hermione ventured finally in response to the Headmaster's query, still not entirely sure how this line of conversation had come about.

"Ah," Dumbledore said with an approving nod, seeming quite pleased. "We are of one mind then, Hermione, on one subject at least."

"Yes, Sir," Hermione agreed, her voice verging on exasperated. This conversation was not progressing in the manner she had thought it would. She was trying valiantly to fight her feelings of frustration, not wanting to show disrespect to the Headmaster, but she suspected that an endeavor to hide one's emotions from him was futile anyway. Dumbledore was known to be a skilled legilimens, so really, what was the point of even attempting to hide _anything_ from him?

Hermione was struck cold by a sudden, horrifying thought. What if Dumbledore had penetrated her mind without her knowing? What if he had chosen to make himself aware of all the knowledge of the future which she possessed?

But no, Hermione assured herself quickly, the Headmaster wouldn't do that. He knew, just as she did, that such an action could have catastrophic consequences. And Dumbledore was neither stupid nor reckless. She had simply been hasty and paranoid in her thinking. This entire situation was messing with her usually sublimely logical faculties in a way that was really quite horrific, Hermione thought. She seriously needed to get a hold of herself. Or just get herself back to 1993, where she could hopefully return to a previous level of sanity.

"Have you made any progress, Professor?" Hermione asked Dumbledore urgently, unable to contain herself any longer. "On finding a way to send me back to 1993?"

Dumbledore rested his impenetrable gaze on Hermione for a long, agonizing moment. And the longer the Headmaster simply stared, the more she could feel the tension building between them, threatening to swallow up all the air in his office and suffocate the both of them. At last, he spoke.

"I am sorry, my dear child, but I have been unable to arrive at a solution to our problem. I have devoted considerable time and effort, as much as I have been able, to the quandary your presence here presents. I have consulted others on the matter as well, those more learned in and familiar with the intricacies of time than myself. Discreetly, of course, " he assured her, as though this was Hermione's primary concern at the moment. It was not.

"Alas," Dumbledore continued, "we have been able to come up with no viable way to return you to the time from whence you came. Again, I am sorry."

He did indeed look sorry, Hermione thought.

"I will not stop searching for a way to return you to your proper time, nor for an explanation as to how you arrived here in the first place," Dumbledore promised, looking intently sincere.

Hermione's hand went instinctively for the scar she bore as a result of where the time turner had cut into her chest, where the sand and glass had mixed with her blood and marked her forever.

"I will not stop trying to find a solution," Dumbledore reiterated, and Hermione was surprised to find that the Headmaster was still speaking. A feeling of numbness had descended on upon her. "But given the circumstances, I feel that the best advice which I could give you would be to try to adjust, as best you can, Hermione, to life here in this time."

Hermione almost wanted to laugh, the compulsion bubbling up in her throat and threatening to escape her mouth in a mad babble. It was a ridiculous, inappropriate reaction, but she suspected Dumbledore would forgive her, just now, if she began acting hysterically.

"You're quite self-possessed for a girl of thirteen, Hermione," Dumbledore said, in what may have been an attempt to distract her from the horror he had just unleashed on her, or to head off any 'un-self-possessed' reaction to his words which may have been brewing inside her.

She must have frowned or betrayed some indication of dismay on her face, because the Headmaster smiled at her kindly. "Don't be offended, dear girl, for I mean it entirely as a compliment," he informed her, his eyes sparkling merrily. Speaking of situationally inappropriate displays of emotion, Hermione thought. The Headmaster was a very bizarre man, she decided, and perhaps possessed less emotional intelligence than one may have been wont to assume.

She managed tight smile in response to his comment. "Thank you, Sir. I'm fourteen now, though. As of yesterday," she explained.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "I see, I see. How delightful! And you have decided on keeping your original date of birth?"

"I have," Hermione confirmed distractedly, finding herself somewhat grated by the Headmaster's apparently cheerful mood. "Though I'm not sure how accurately it reflects my true age anymore."

"Sometimes it is worth fudging things just a bit in order to maintain a sense of normalcy," Dumbledore said understandingly. He paused, sobering slightly and looking contemplative. "As long as one does not get carried away."

Hermione frowned, unsure how exactly to take such a sentiment. "Headmaster," she ventured, wanting to give voice to something about which she had been wondering, and which, in light of the information Dumbledore had just given her, had now become more prudent a worry than ever. "What do you think will happen on my actual birthday? On September 19th, 1979, that is? If I'm still here?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "That is an intriguing line of enquiry, my girl, one that I have given thought to as well. I must admit that I am not quite sure what will happen." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "What I suspect, is that one of two things will occur. Either you will vanish upon the birth of your other self, or your other self will never be born in the first place. The second option, I think, would be preferable."

Dumbledore pronounced all this stoically and with little fanfare, heedless of, or more likely simply choosing to delicately ignore, the dramatic impact of his words on Hermione; of their ability to steal her breath like a punch to the stomach.

"Forgive me, my dear, for being blunt," Dumbledore said eventually, as Hermione stared at him wild eyed, almost panicky. She shouldn't have been so shocked, she knew. Dumbledore's assessment of the situation was only logical. Hermione herself had contemplated similar scenarios as she lay in bed at night, unable to sleep for the distressing thoughts churning in the darkest corners of her mind, making her head spin. But to hear her possible future, or lack thereof, laid out in such bleak, stark terms by Professor Dumbledore had the effect of driving home rather harshly what had previously been only an unpleasant abstraction.

If her other self _was_ born in 1979, then the self she knew now, the self misplaced in time, would vanish. Hermione would be doomed to a purgatory of uncertainty for all eternity, forced to exist in an unknowing limbo as she was hurtled back and forth through time over and over. Unless something were to happen which disrupted the cycle, but Hermione had no idea how such a thing might occur, and she doubted Dumbledore did either. If the Headmaster did have any idea, even so much as an inkling, of how such a disruption might be enacted, he had kept such intimations to himself, likely disregarding any half formed thoughts or plans as too dangerous or uncertain to bother sharing with Hermione.

Dumbledore was correct, she realized with a kind of muted horror; if she was unable to return to 1993, it was probably best if she were never to be born to her parents at all. Perhaps, Hermione thought, attempting to force an air of clinical detachment, they would even be better off; unburdened by a daughter whom they would largely lose to a world they had such limited access to, and which they could never really understand.

But her parents had always been supportive of her and her magical abilities, even before they had received clarification on just what their daughter was in the form of her Hogwarts letter. When she had been little, Hermione knew that her parents had wondered about the oddities which occurred around their daughter. Of course they had, any muggle parent would, but they had never taken such things as cause to reject her. They had always loved her unconditionally. Hermione knew it was unfair, even dishonorable, to project her own insecurities onto her parents. Yet the adoption of such an illusion, that they were indeed better off without her, might things slightly more bearable if she were never to see them again. And Hermione was now almost sure that she never would.

"Wherever your head is, child," Dumbledore said softly, breaking into Hermione's increasingly dark line of thinking, "I would advise you not to let yourself be consumed by dread of eventualities which may never come to pass."

"There are many things which have already come to pass, Professor, that can never be undone," Hermione said flatly. "And I fear it would be no better to let myself be consumed by hope or longing for things that may not happen, and which likely will not."

Dumbledore bowed his head. "A world without hope is a bleak world in which to live, Hermione," he said, his voice tinged with an overarching sadness.

"I am coming to find that the world is a far bleaker place than I would have thought possible, Professor," Hermione replied softly, her eyes downcast.

"You are quite right, child," Dumbledore agreed soberly. "This world has a startling capacity for unspeakable horrors, as indeed, does humanity itself. I will not dispute you on that point. Yet we must never forget that this world, dark as it may be, also contains within it unbelievable depths of inexplicable beauty. Please, do not allow yourself to forget that, Hermione."

Despite her mood, Hermione found herself moved by the Headmaster's impassioned words. "I will try not to, Sir," she promised, her voice slightly choked. "I will try not to."

Dumbledore nodded. "Good," he affirmed. "Now let us speak on other matters."

Subsequently, Hermione's discussion with the Headmaster moved on to subjects considerably less sensational than muggle literary feuds or her various existential traumas. Dumbledore wanted to know how she was settling into the 1970's version of Gryffindor House, and whether she was enjoying her classes, and other such achingly bland inquiries, which were nevertheless comforting in their mundane familiarity.

Hermione answered him mechanically. She was in something of a daze as a result of their previous conversation, and the realizations which it had brought about. The likelihood of her returning to the 1990's, to her parents and to Harry and Ron, to the (relatively) normal life which she had so naively taken for granted, had dwindled down to practical nonexistence. That had been made blindingly, abundantly, painfully clear to Hermione this night. She was never going to be able to go home. For the foreseeable future, she was stuck in the 1970's. At least until 1979, when it was quite possible that she would abruptly vanish off the face of the earth and never be heard from again. Hermione had a lot to process.

* * *

 _AN: I'm so petty about how much I hate Hemingway lol, sorry. Reviews are love and fill me with motivation babes, so let me know what you think ;)_


	12. Inadvertent Actions and Reactions

_AN: I have little patience for proofreading (though I always do), and no beta, so any mistakes you catch and point out are appreciated! I'm always in a rush to get chapters up as soon as I can because I'm a slow updater. Hope you enjoy!_

Chapter 12: Inadvertent Actions and Reactions

In the wake of her monumental meeting with Dumbledore, Hermione had begun efforts to adjust her mindset and resign herself to the likely fact that she would be remaining here in this time. It was a disquieting prospect, to say the least, but it was her reality, and she was resolved to make the best of it rather than wallowing in grief for a life that was almost certainly lost to her now. Well, Hermione may have indulged in a little wallowing, but she was doing her best to keep it to a minimum and not let it consume her. It was hardest late at night, when she was left entirely alone with her thoughts, and found herself haunted by memories of Harry, Ron and her parents. Sometimes she would wake from vivid dreams of her old life, and for the barest moment of wakefulness, believe herself to be at home in 1993. But then she would hear Dorcas' distinctive, girlish snore and reality would quickly come crashing back down on her.

It was much easier during the day, when Hermione was usually able to remain sufficiently engaged with her classes and her friends to the point that her darker thoughts were kept at bay, only to be dredged up at night in her frequent nightmares. Hermione had found herself becoming something of an insomniac, and she frequently stayed up quite late to study or read in the common room, putting off the dreaded activity of going to bed. She often longed for the respite a dreamless sleep potion would bring, and she guessed that a sympathetic Madam Pomfrey would be only too happy to provide them for her. But the potions were highly addictive, and Hermione had no wish to become dependent on them. She needed to learn to manage on her own, and she was confident that eventually she would, and her nights would improve. For now though, days unquestionably remained her refuge, littered as they were with potent distractions to occupy her mind. Her approaching detention with Sirius Black was, at the moment, chief among her day time diversions. It may not have been an entirely pleasant matter with which to be distracted, but Hermione could certainly think of much worse alternatives.

Currently, Lily and Dorcas were much preoccupied with her coming detention as well. Quite honestly, Hermione was beginning to tire of their attitude toward the whole affair, which could best be characterized by a degree of scandalized awe. She knew that this wasn't because either girl thought that being sentenced to detention was particularly scandalous (it wasn't) but more down to the fact that it was _Hermione_ who had been sentenced to one. And deservedly, in all honestly. She had punched Lucius Malfoy in the face. Detention was the _least_ of what she deserved for such an act of violence, provoked though it most certainly had been. Hermione already spent an inordinate amount of time castigating herself over that stupid, impulsive action, and she felt it was about time she stopped punishing herself for it. There was nothing she could do to take it back, so she simply had to live with the consequences of her violent outburst. One of which was her coming detention with Sirius Black.

"You know, it's not as if I've never had detention before," Hermione said tartly to Lily and Dorcas one morning at breakfast, having grown exasperated with her friends' near incessant fretting over the matter.

"Have you?" Dorcas asked, seeming somewhat surprised by this admission on Hermione's part. She leaned forward slightly in interest, nudging Lily. The red head had raised her eyebrows and was looking mildly skeptical.

Hermione huffed. "Yes, I have," she said, her consternation having been piqued just a little by the disbelieving reactions of the two girls. She wasn't a complete stick in the mud, she could get detention!

She may have possessed a certain…rigidity about rules when she had first come to Hogwarts, but Hermione now recognized that a lot of that uptightness had probably been due to the fact that she had been trying to figure out how to exist in an environment that was markedly different than the one she had spent the first 11 years of her life in. People who had grown up in the magical world, people like Ron, were comfortable enough there that they didn't mind flouting convention and breaking the odd rule now and then. But to a muggle born like Hermione, rules had served as a literal guide for how to operate in a world that had been completely unfamiliar to her, and she had clung to them. Desperately, at first.

Once she'd become friends with Harry and Ron though, her attitude of totally strict adherence to all Hogwarts rules had eroded considerably. It was practically inevitable under their influence. Though she had usually tried to reign the boys in as best she could, especially when it came to their less well thought out rule breaking endeavors, (and between them, Harry and Ron come up with some really quite outlandishly stupid schemes) she often found herself getting caught up in their shenanigans and being pulled along for the ride. Hence her previous, and sole, detention.

"What was it for?" Lily wanted to know, tucking a strand of vibrant red hair behind her ear and peering at Hermione curiously.

"Were you, perhaps, late on a homework assignment?" Dorcas wondered, her face the perfect picture of faux innocence.

Hermione and Lily rolled their eyes simultaneously. Dorcas knew full well, even after such a short time of having known her, that Hermione would never, except perhaps upon pain of death, turn in a homework assignment late. And nor would Lily, come to that. Hermione had found and excellent and fastidious study partner in the green eyed girl, much to her delight. The two of them were academic kindred spirits. It was something Hermione had never experienced before, certainly not with Harry or Ron, and certainly not with Dorcas, who frequently passed over crumpled parchment to their Professor' days late and utterly without shame, asserting confidently that she had needed extra time to properly articulate her brilliance.

"Don't be snotty, Dorcas," Lily admonished their friend. "What was it, Hermione, really?" she asked.

"Yes, do tell us what dastardly deeds you got up to in order to land yourself in detention," Dorcas rejoined, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"I got caught out of bed after hours," Hermione explained primly.

Dorcas deflated rather abruptly. "Well, that's entirely anticlimactic," she complained. "Much less exciting that punching Malfoy in the face."

Hermione shrugged, striving to seem nonchalant. She could hardly include any of the more exciting details of the nighttime excursion which had led to her detention, such as Harry's forgotten invisibility cloak or the notable fact that they had just finished smuggling a highly illegal baby dragon out of the castle. Dorcas would just have to exist with a little bit less drama in her life, in this instance at least.

"Sorry to disappoint you Dorcas, but we don't all lead lives quite as exciting as yours," Hermione said dryly.

Lily giggled. "She's right Dorcas, not all of us are involved in the kind of notorious exploits you spend your time occupied with."

Dorcas crossed her arms over her chest, raising a delicate, blonde eyebrow. "Don't act like you're the epitome of innocence Lily Evans, we all remember that incident from 2nd year!"

Lily gasped, bracing her hands on the breakfast table, heedless of the fact that she had inadvertently slammed one of her palms into a stray puddle of pumpkin juice. "We don't need to talk about that!" she screeched. "You be quiet Dorcas Meadows!"

"What on earth are the two of you banging on about?" Hermione wondered, not wanting to offend Lily, who was clearly becoming distressed, but overcome by curiosity despite herself. Dorcas was only too happy to enlighten her.

"She got into a massive row with James Potter," the blonde said loudly, clapping a hand across Lily's mouth and sufficiently drowning out the red head's own explanation. "She'd seen him send a hex at a first year Slytherin, and she went and got all self-righteous, as she does, you know you do, Lils," she added to Lily, whose mouth she was still covering with her hand, much to the other girl's apparent displeasure. "And then," Dorcas continued, her voice growing even louder as she struggled to continue to subdue Lily and talk at the same time, "she called him an irresponsible toe rag and a ghoul, and then hit him with a jelly-legs jinx right as Professor McGonagall happened to be passing by!"

"As if you've never had detention!" Lily cried, finally managing to fling Dorcas' hand away from her mouth, a bit too late, and looking incredibly flustered. She folded her arms defensively across her chest, her cheeks flushed a deep, hearty red; possibly as a result of frustrated embarrassment, but also quite possibly due to a diminished supply of oxygen. Dorcas _had_ been covering her mouth the whole time she was telling the story. Either way, Lily was fuming. She glared accusingly at Dorcas, waiting for the other witch to respond to her accusation.

"Me? In detention?" Dorcas mused playfully, briefly pouting her lips as though offended, before abruptly abandoning her act of affected innocence and allowing a cat-who-got-the-canary grin to erupt unrestrainedly over her face. "Oh, dozens of times," she admitted easily, entirely unrepentant.

"Dozens?" Hermione repeated faintly, shocked. She knew Dorcas was outspoken and mischievous, honestly, it was part of her magnetism, but those were Weasley Twin levels of detention! "For what?" she demanded.

"Various things," Dorcas said cheerfully, corralling her blonde hair up into a high ponytail and looking positively gleeful.

Hermione gaped at her. Lily, who was clearly more familiar with this type of behavior and attitude from Dorcas, having had two plus years to get used to it, was nodding her head in a kind of solemn resignation; the red head's anger at the blonde having fizzled out just as quickly as it'd erupted.

"I'm telling you, Hermione, I love her, but she's completely hopeless."

* * *

The evening of Hermione's detention, her second ever (or possibly her first, depending on how one wished to interpret things when it came to the timeline) soon arrived. The muggle born witch had been enjoying a hitherto benignly pleasant Thursday afternoon of reading in the common room after the conclusion of the days classes, switching her attention leisurely between study materials and the novel she was currently immersed in. But such innocuous pleasures were about to come to an end; the unhappy event of her detention with Sirius was nearly at hand. Conceding this reality, Hermione reluctantly began to stow away her various reading materials and set about readying herself mentally for the upcoming evening.

"It'll be fine," Lily murmured to her as she packed up her things. "It's just a couple of hours."

"I know," Hermione acknowledged with a small sigh, trying not to grouse too much, and mostly, she thought, succeeding. Lily still seemed able to sense her negative mood though. The red head gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, adding in a supportive squeeze, before returning her attention to her charms essay. Hermione looked on jealously, wishing she could tuck into her own essay, but knowing it would have to wait.

Dorcas, who was miraculously free of detention for once, given her apparent proclivities, was using her free time to paint her nails a vivid shade of electric blue, focusing on her task with admirable concentration. Hermione would just have to leave them to it, she supposed. Glancing at her watch and seeing the time, she figured she'd better quit dawdling and make her way down to the dungeons.

"Try not to punch Black in the face!" Dorcas hollered as she climbed out of the portrait hole, which was the opposite of a helpful piece of advice, even if it was one Hermione _did_ intend to follow.

As she descended deeper into depths of the castle, the air becoming chillier and the unpleasant dampness which dogged the dungeons cloaking itself about her, Hermione found herself very grateful for her sweater. It was late September, and autumn in Scotland, with its characteristic brisk chill, had begun to settle into itself. She'd barely arrived at the dungeons, and she was already shivering. Grateful as she may have been for her sweater, Hermione was now wishing that'd she'd had the foresight to bring a cloak as well. It was freezing! How did the Slytherins live down here!

Hermione wasn't typically one to indulge too much in House prejudices, but she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the predominately negative attitudes of Slytherin House members had something to do with how cold and dank it was in their lower corner of the castle. It made for a distinctly unpleasant atmosphere. She was being blasé though. Realistically, she knew that the negative personality traits so ubiquitous in Slytherin had more to do with the bigoted, pureblood, power politics which were endemic there as well, at least in both the 1970's and the 1990's, then they did with the location of the Slytherin common room. But she couldn't imagine it wasn't a contributing factor with at least _some_ people; it was miserable down here in the dregs of the castle, especially at night.

Slughorn, apparently, was the one person immune to the effects of the biting cold which pervaded the dungeons, for when Hermione arrived outside the potions classroom for her detention, precisely on time, she found a man who looked anything but chilled. The Professor, who had been lying in wait ready to usher her inside his dungeon lair, had discarded his outer robes and was sweating profusely, as was his wont. Hermione had previously thought that the cause of this sweating was all of the heat and steam created by the continuous brewing of potions within his classroom, but none of that was going on now, so she concluded that Professor Slughorn was just given to sweating. Having no wish to continue contemplating the bodily functions of her Potions Master, Hermione sought to occupy herself by surveying the bounty of unprepped, unprocessed, potions ingredients which had been laid out for her and Black, who, incidentally, had not yet arrived, and was now at least a good five minutes late.

Slughorn had taken a seat behind his desk, grumbling that he had better wait for Black's arrival before providing instructions. Hermione had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Having looked over the materials set out, and being familiar with ingredient preparation, having taken Potions at Hogwarts for more than two years (not that Slughorn knew that), it seemed quite obvious to her what they were supposed to do. You didn't need to be overly endowed with intellectual capabilities to know how to purge and deseed mer-milk pods. But Slughorn was clearly intent on needlessly explaining things, and was unwilling to do so until Black got there, which left the two of them to wait in what ended up being one part impatient silence (Hermione) and one part self-important monologuing (Professor Slughorn).

By the time Black finally did show up, Hermione had gone from merely impatient to significantly annoyed. He slunk into the dungeons a full 12 minutes late, looking distinctly unapologetic for his tardiness and the delay it had caused. He greeted them via a halfhearted wave and a grunt. Hermione struggled to reign in her irritation. Black's late arrival did, at least, have the positive effect of interrupting Slughorn's stream of bloviating babble.

"Black, my boy! Finally here, are you?" Professor Slughorn greeted him jovially, and Hermione didn't bother to hold in her eyeroll this time.

Rather than reprimanding Sirius for his discourteous lateness, Slughorn instead took up his familiar routine of badgering the Black heir about joining the Slug Club, something the Marauder seemed to have just as little patience for as Hermione. They had a general dislike of Slughorn in common, if nothing else. Black derailed the Professor from his attempted recruitment as quickly as possible, all but telling the man to get to the point of their detention and leave them to it, though he was a tad more artful about it than that. Black's upbringing had clearly instilled in him the ability to be condescendingly diplomatic if he so chose. As far as Hermione could tell he didn't often exercise it, not typically having the patience, but it seemed that he could employ it when necessary. It was mildly impressive, if very Slytherin. Whether or not Slughorn was aware of the disdain with which Black clearly viewed him, Hermione wasn't sure, but the Potion's Master didn't seem much deterred by Black's attitude either way.

Eventually, after having been successfully put off by Sirius, Slughorn finally related to them what it was they were supposed to be doing for the duration of their detention. She and Black were to prep the myriad of raw potions ingredients which had been laid on the table before them, package them properly in clearly labeled jars, and once they were done, deposit the finished products neatly in the store cupboard in their designated areas. It was a simple enough task, if undeniably tedious. Slughorn, having sufficiently instructed them, retreated behind his desk and busied himself marking papers.

"I'll start with the knotgrass, if you don't mind," Hermione said, shifting her hair out of her face in preparation for the work, and grabbing a knife suitable for mincing. She was used to taking the lead when it came to potions, having often been partnered for the class with Neville Longbottom back in the 1990's. Sirius, though he was leagues better than Neville had been when it came to brewing, appeared happy enough to relinquish the knotgrass to her, shrugging and turning his own attention to the mer-milk pods. He'd rolled up his sleeves, likely in anticipation of the messy splatter purging the pods tended to result in, and Hermione noticed that he had a fine dusting of black hair covering his forearms. She didn't know why she noticed it.

They worked in silence for a good while, which suited Hermione just fine. She wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, she didn't need to distract herself from her appointed task by attempting to make conversation with an edgy looking Black, who didn't seem to be in a very verbose mood anyway. For the first hour, the dullness of the detention was broken up only by the occasional exploding mer-milk pod, incidents which Sirius clearly relished (Hermione suspected he might be being rough with the pods on purpose), and which caused Hermione to scoot her chair further and further away each time it happened, so as to avoid the milky projectile spewing forth from the pods. It was murder to get out of her hair.

Another hour past, and Hermione had moved on from mincing knotgrass to dicing fire slugs. Black was still occupied with the last of the (admittedly more labor intensive) mer-milk pods, and Slughorn had left some time ago, gathering up a messy clutch of papers to be graded and muttering something about needing to go to his office. Hermione rather suspected he was just bored at watching them. In any case, he'd left, leaving her and Black alone to continue on in silence.

Dicing of fire slugs was hardly absorbing though, and after a few hours of such unexciting, repetitive work Hermione found that she had grown quite bored as well. More and more her eyes wandered away from her work and over to Black. He was, after all, a much more interesting subject than basic potion ingredients. She still didn't know what to think of him, and because of that, her mind (and eyes) were often frustratingly drawn to him. When she'd first got to the 1970's and been confronted with Black she'd been so sure that he was a completely horrible person, a future murderer and prison escapee, and it had been both easy and satisfying to hate him. But after the business with Lucius Malfoy Hermione's feelings about Black had become considerably less clear cut.

As Lily had factually pointed out, Black had stood up for her that night, even after the admittedly horrible way she had treated him. She'd felt protected by him among the Slytherins, and that realization was deeply unsettling given what she knew of his future actions. But what _did_ she really know of his future actions, Hermione wondered? He'd murdered Peter Pettigrew and 12 muggles on a busy London street, that's what all the papers had said back in the 1990's when interest in Black and his crimes had been reignited by his escape from Azkaban. While Hermione _had_ taken it upon herself to look into Black's case at the time, hoping to gain some insight into his motivations (and, she could admit, out of pure interest- there was a reason muggle serial killer documentaries were so fascinating) she'd mostly been consumed by her worry for Harry once they'd discovered Black was after him.

One thing she remembered in particular though was that Black hadn't gotten a trial, a fact which had struck her as unusual at the time, if not a bit unsettling. Such a thing would have never happened in the muggle world, where right to a trial had been deeply intrenched for centuries, at least in Britain. Even the _Nazis_ had got trials. But Black hadn't. Was it fair to condemn someone for actions they had not yet committed, and which they'd never even been properly convicted of in the first place? It was an ethical quandary which Hermione simply didn't feel prepared to sort out by herself, not with everything else she was currently embroiled in. Living and existing in the past was all one big, agonizing, ethical quandary. Muggle philosophers would have had a field day with her, Hermione thought wryly.

Perhaps she ought to meet with Dumbledore again to discuss what to do about Black, or at least how to relate to him in a non-damaging way; they were in the same house after all. Obviously there were certain disclosures she couldn't make to the Headmaster, but maybe she could outline things in vague terms and get at least some measure of helpful advice from him. Though after the uneven keel of their last meeting, Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted to meet with Dumbledore again so soon. The man was undeniably brilliant, but in truth Hermione sometimes found his presence to be exhausting rather than comforting. She'd have to think on the matter.

In the meantime, she kept wanting to study Black, her eyes returning to him periodically throughout the course of their agonizingly drawn out, shared detention. For some reason Hermione kept finding herself staring at his forearms. She'd have never admitted it to the blonde, but after a considerable amount of study, Hermione was forced to concede that Dorcas was right about Black's forearms; they were quite nice. She was examining them idly, having grown tired and lazy in her ministrations with the fire slugs, though she was still sluggishly plugging away at them, when she noticed something quite bizarre.

A scar was beginning to form on Black's right wrist, slowly darkening and becoming more solid as it revealed itself; a lurid, purple line several inches long. It's sudden appearance, Hermione discerned, must have been the result of the glamour charm which had previously been concealing it wearing off. She froze, staring, as it materialized, the mark cutting a harsh, stark line across Black's wrist. At the sight of it fully formed, she bolted straight up in her seat, abandoning her fire slugs once and for all. Hermione knew what kind of scar that was, and she could guess why Black had tried to hide it.

"That's a curse scar," she whispered, aghast. "How did you get that?"

Sirius startled, abandoning his work, looking at first flummoxed, and then with a glance down at his wrist where Hermione's eyes had landed, horrified. He swore heartily.

"Fucking leave it, Granger, would you?" Sirius snarled, tugging his shirtsleeve back down with a harsh yank and hastily avoiding her eyes. "I know it's hard for you, but try not to be an insufferable busy body for once in your life, alright? It's not an attractive quality."

He was lashing out at her like a scared, wounded animal, Hermione thought, observing Black with a sad weariness. She suspected his caustic reaction was borne out of a sense of defensive embarrassment, and the knowledge on his part that Hermione likely knew enough about his family situation to guess how he'd acquired such a nasty looking curse scar. She felt bad that she had intruded into this dark side of Black's private life, however inadvertent and accidental her intrusion may have been.

"I have a curse scar as well," she volunteered impulsively. She hadn't meant to say it, but she'd been taken over by a strong urge to redirect the conversation away from Sirius, and to try and alleviate some of the discomfort he was obviously feeling. Black was clearly ashamed and embarrassed over what she had discovered, and, Hermione suspected, resentful of the knowledge she now possessed about him. What she had seen was incredibly personal in nature, and she was certain it wasn't something Black would have ever chosen to reveal to her of his own volition. Maybe she could even things out a bit with a disclosure of her own.

Black was frowning at her, his dark eyes hard, but she thought she detected a hint of surprise beneath the surface of his guarded outward demeanor. His back was definitely still up, but at least he was no longer snarling at her.

"Well, it might not be a curse scar," Hermione rambled nervously. "I'm not exactly sure what it's from, I don't entirely remember how I got it. But it's from dark magic, in any case."

Hermione was half lying. She knew precisely how she had gotten her scar, but she couldn't exactly reveal that it was the result of a broken time turner, no matter how vulnerable she was choosing to be right now. She wasn't sure of the exact nature of the mark, but calling it a 'curse scar' felt like something of an accurate approximation.

Black was still staring at her, his gaze intense, but possibly a little less accusing than it had been. He looked curious, Hermione thought, somewhere underneath his hard exterior.

"I'll show you," she said, shocking herself, and Black, if the widening of his eyes was any indication. But then, her sense of fairness had always been particularly engrained, and she'd seen Black's scar, so Hermione reasoned that it was only fair that he saw hers. In truth, the way he had reacted with such…emotional violence to her having seen that scar on his arm had wrenched at Hermione's own emotions, making her desperate to try and do something, anything, to mitigate the damage. She'd never dealt well with seeing someone in pain, always desperate to fix it, especially if she had been the cause. And so here she was, on the cusp of attempting make Black feel better by showing him evidence of some of her own pain; about to expose her own secret vulnerability to him in return for having accidently caught a glimpse of his.

Steeling her courage, Hermione lifted up her mass of hair, moving it aside along with the carved rose necklace she had received from Hagrid for her birthday. She turned her head to the side before she did it, not wanting to look at Black as she revealed herself to him. And then, squeezing her eyes shut in the moment, Hermione tugged down the v-neck of her sweater. She did it quickly, knowing that the move would expose the top of her sternum where her scar dwelled, nestled in between the valley of her breasts.

"Horrid, isn't it?" Hermione said softly, still not looking at Black, though she presumed he was looking at her; or more specifically, at the patch of exposed skin where the time turner had left its mark on her. Logically, she knew that there wasn't any reason for her to be ashamed of her scar. And Hermione wasn't ashamed, not exactly, but she couldn't help feeling self-conscious about it. She had also never shown it to anyone before, though of course Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey had both seen it, and possibly Hagrid as well, but that had been a result of necessity and less than ideal circumstances, not any conscious choice on the part of Hermione. Since those involuntary reveals, she had always taken care to make sure her scar was hidden by her clothing, and when she was changing in the dorm with the other girls she was fastidious about making sure they were unable to catch a glimpse of anything. Godric forbid anyone notice her unusual scar and start asking questions. But now, against all odds, expectations and strains of rational thought, Hermione had chosen to reveal her it to Sirius Black. She could scarcely believe herself.

"It's not horrid," Black said eventually, his voice slightly hoarse. Hermione reluctantly turned back to face him, still holding down the v-neck of her sweater.

As she'd anticipated, Black was indeed staring at her scar. But rather than looking repulsed or horrified, as Hermione, in her undue self-consciousness, had feared would be his inevitable reaction, Black looked captivated; staring at her scar with such a level of wondering intensity that it was startling. Hermine shifted under his gaze. It was strange and a bit uncomfortable to have someone studying her scar, and her chest, so closely.

"It's, it almost looks like a star, but burst open," Sirius observed in a somewhat inarticulate expression of a thought Hermione had had herself. He sounded almost awed.

Hermione said nothing, overwhelmed by the intense and strangely intimate atmosphere which had overtaken the two of them. She simply stared at Black staring at her, completely bewildered by his reaction to her scar, and equally unable to explain her own current mess of confused emotions.

Suddenly tearing his gaze from her scar, Black raised his eyes to Hermione's own, his gray orbs darker than normal, and no longer filled with anger as they had been just a few moments previously. Hermione couldn't quite read the look in them, and she didn't have much of a chance to parse it. Their eyes met for only seconds before Black's darted back down to her scar. Later, she would reflect that perhaps he had been attempting to ask a silent form of permission of her, and that he must have perceived some kind ascension in her eyes, because Black's gaze had scarcely resettled on her scar before he reached out to touch.

Hermione gasped as he made contact with her skin, his fingers beginning to lightly trace out the lines of her scar, shocked at the audacity of Black's gesture, and even more shocked at her own acceptance of it.

"It's smooth," Black observed wonderingly, his voice hushed as he continued to explore the spot of marred tissue sat high on Hermione's sternum, just between her breasts.

"Yes," Hermione acknowledged, her voice a shaky whisper. She had become engulfed by a peculiar tingling kind of sensation, stemming outward from her scar and Black's fingers on it, but reverberating throughout the entirety of her body and to the ends of her limbs. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant, and Hermione found herself something like intoxicated by it. She was unable, or unwilling, to move, looking on with wide eyes as Black's fingers continued to roam over her skin. His touch felt almost reverential, and though Hermione couldn't fathom why it should be, she found herself involuntarily basking in it nonetheless. No one had ever looked at or touched her in such a manner before, and especially not after she had made herself so deliberately vulnerable. But there was no denying that Black seemed positively enraptured. And by her! Or at least by her scar. It was a kind of delirium, Hermione thought distantly, and in the midst of the experience she didn't yet know how to process it.

Black clearly wasn't the least bit offended or put off by her scar; on the contrary he seemed quite fascinated by it, and not in any kind of morbid fashion. Because of this, there was, amongst the bizarre tumult of emotions and sensations which had overtaken Hermione as a result of Black's unexpected reaction to her scar, a prevailing sense of comfort. While it was somewhat at odds with the rest of the novel sensations Hermione was experiencing, she felt an undeniable sense of reassurance in Black's appreciative touch. He didn't think her scar was grotesque, or anything to be ashamed of, and in some way that made it easier for her to disregard those negative, niggling notions about it herself.

Seeking to foster similar revelations in Black regarding his own scar, Hermione found herself reaching up to grasp his wrist, encircling her fingers around it where it had settled lightly against her sternum . At her touch, Blacks hand stilled on her scar, and he raised his eyes to meet hers, questioning. Not taking her eyes off of Black's dark, unsure ones, Hermione began lightly stroking up and down the length of Black's scar with her thumb, desperate to communicate her compassionate intentions, but unsure quite how. By the brightness of Black's eyes, and something of the look in them, she thought he understood what she meant to offer with her touch; the reassurance that his scar was nothing to be ashamed of either.

After a moment, Black resumed his exploration of her own scar, his fingers once again taking up their endeavor to trace its every line, while Hermione continued drag her thumb back and forth over the scar on Sirius' wrist. She wasn't sure how long they did this, her and Black, stroking each other's scars and staring intently into each other's eyes as they existed in their own little world, a bevy of unspoken emotion passing wordlessly between them. Time was rendered both incomprehensible and irrelevant within the confines of their intimacy, at least for Hermione. Suddenly though, Black's hand listed slightly to the side, his knuckle brushing inadvertently against the edge of her left breast. Hermione gasped, jerking back in shock and distancing herself from Black, who was staring wide eyed at his hand, still lingering in the air between them. He hadn't meant to touch her there, she was sure. But he had, accident or not, and it had broken the spell between them.

In the wake of it all, Hermione felt quite dazed. Black, for his part, didn't seem to know how he felt. His initial reaction of surprise was quickly dissipating, making way for a state of fidgety panic.

"Granger, I didn't mean to—that is, er, sorry," he offered haltingly, looking uncomfortable and clearly worried that he'd offended her.

"I know!" Hermione said quickly, hastening to assure Black that she didn't think he'd felt her up on purpose. She knew he hadn't. And besides, she told herself, It had just been an idle, accidental brush of his hand against her breast, nothing more. It really shouldn't have been a big deal. Except that somehow it was.

"Okay, right," Sirius said, nodding. "Sorry. Again."

Hermione made a face, groaning inwardly. This whole thing was becoming excruciatingly awkward.

"We should probably get back to-" she gestured vaguely at the mess of potions ingredients before them, which they were supposed to be attending. Black nodded, giving an affirmative grunt, and by mutual, silent agreement, the two of them took up their designated task once more. Slughorn really was an abhorrently neglectful chaperone, Hermione reflected as she resumed her dicing of fire slugs. She hadn't seen the man in at least half an hour.

Her and Black passed the rest of their detention in thick, tension filled silence, which made for something of an oppressive atmosphere. Every once in a while one of them would steal a covert, awkward glance at their companion, but only when they thought the other was sufficiently absorbed in the monotonous haze of ingredient preparation so as not to notice. Black, for one, wasn't being as subtle as he seemed to think. Hermione caught him eyeing her several times, which only served to exacerbate the tension in the room, and her own personal level of discomfort.

She tried to focus solely on her work with the ingredients, having judged it too risky to devote any of her current brain space to contemplating what had just happened between her and Black. Such ruminations, Hermione had decided, were best left to when she was alone, or at the very least, no longer in the presence of Black himself. So, for the rest of the detention, she simply resolved to make her best effort not to think about anything which had earlier transpired. Analysis of the bizarre episode between her and Black would just have to wait for later.

Professor Slughorn never deigned to make a reappearance, likely assuming that her and Black would simply pack up their things and leave once they had finished their work. Or at least Hermione presumed so.

"Probably off noshing on those nasty pineapple candies of his and guzzling overpriced elvish wine," Sirius muttered towards the end of the night, causing Hermione to snort just a bit. It was a scenario she could envision all too easily.

She didn't much miss the Potion Master's presence, but his dereliction of duty when it came to supervising her and Black's detention did rankle a bit. He was _supposed_ to have been keeping an eye on them, and instead he'd abandoned the adolescent pair to their own devices. Which had led to certain circumstances, which had led to her and Black becoming thoroughly distracted by each other and one another's scars. She was sure that nothing like what had occurred between them ever would have happened if Slughorn had been there, and Hermione was still in the process of deciding whether the obnoxious man's lack of presence, and what it had led to, was a good thing or not. It had certainly given her a lot to think about. It seemed that since she had arrived in the 1970's she'd been continually forced to reevaluate just what she thought she knew about Sirius Black. Hermione shot him a sidelong glance of her own, a contemplative frown disrupting her delicate features, before quickly looking away. She didn't think Black noticed.

They were just packing up to leave, having finished prepping all the ingredients and sufficiently restocked Slughorn's stores, when Black caught her wrist.

"Granger, wait," he said, addressing Hermione directly for the first time in hours. He didn't look at her, staring resolutely at the ground instead, but he was still holding her wrist, and he was still talking. "If you're worried about people seeing your scar, not that you should be, but if you are," he said, his words spilling forth in a loose, hurried rush, "you could use a glamour on it. To cover it up. That's what I do with mine when I get back to school. Before they fade. I just-I just forgot to renew it tonight."

Hermione turned her hand over in Black's hold, stroking the scar on his wrist one more time. At her movement, he finally looked up at her, the expression on his face somewhere between stricken and achingly vulnerable.

"Glamour won't work on mine," Hermione explained quietly. She had tried the spell on herself, to useless effect, a few weeks previously. "But thank you."

Black nodded, dropping her wrist. Together they made their way silently back up to Gryffindor Tower, the air between them still sparked with tension.

* * *

 _AN: Feelings from our two key players about the detention to be explored and dissected next chapter_ _Also, mer-milk pods are not a thing in the HP universe, I totally made them up, and imagine them to grow in bodies of water that mermaids occupy and kind of like milkweed pods except…seedier. I dunno, lol. As for the scar sharing bit, I tried to make it feel at least a *little* sexually charged but not overly, and mostly just an emotional experience. They're kids, but I was definitely having feelings of a sexy nature at 13/14 so…yeah. Let me know how I did with it! Reviews give me life, I always appreciate all y'all's feedback!_

 _Also, I almost titled this chapter 'Scars to your Beautiful' after the Alessia Cara song but deemed it too cheesy and not quite fitting lol._


	13. A Black Interlude

_AN:_ _I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! A combo of laptop issues and writers block, because Sirius is way harder for me to write then Hermione._

 _This chapter is a bit dark in places. It's all from Sirius' POV, and I see him as pretty dark, angsty character to be honest. My interpretation of him, given what we know of his childhood and Hogwarts years from canon, is that he was probably a pretty messed up kid. Sirius (at least my version of him) is dark, and twisty and messy af and that's why I love him. I've always been drawn to lovable fuckups. Hope I did him justice!_

 _CW: Child abuse and extremely unhealthy family dynamics. Nothing too graphic or specific I don't think, but still…_

* * *

Chapter 13: A Black Interlude

It was Saturday morning, two days after his detention with Granger, and Sirius Black, who could usually be counted upon to devour hotcakes with an unseemly voraciousness, was atypically disengaged from his breakfast. He'd yet to actually eat anything, and was instead occupied with frowning contemplatively at his pumpkin juice.

"Alright, mate, what the hell is going on with you?" James demanded abruptly, startling Sirius from his preoccupation with the pumpkin juice.

"What?" he asked stupidly.

" _That_ ," James said emphatically. "You've been completely out of it for the past couple of days. You're being weird."

"Weirder than normal," Peter piped up, his mouth full of partly chewed French-toast; not that this fact was stopping him from eagerly volunteering his opinion.

"Thanks for the input, Pete," Sirius said sarcastically, staring at the blot of maple syrup that was dripping down the other boy's chin, grotesquely fascinated. The secret pureblood snob in him felt that if one was going to debase themselves by eating in such a way ,they ought to at least be enjoying hotcakes, which were infinitely superior to French-toast. Sometimes he really questioned Peter's choices.

"They're right," Remus said, drawing Sirius' gaze away from the horrifying spectacle of Peter's eating habits. "You have been acting weird. Ever since your detention with Hermione."

Damned by Moony and his preternatural powers of observation once again, Sirius thought with a sigh.

"Granger?" James seized on this new angle with a sudden burst of understanding, and Sirius groaned inwardly. Or possibly out loud.

James may not have put things together as fast as Remus apparently had, but he wasn't one to miss something right in front of his face after it had been pointed out to him, even if he was slightly emotionally dense. Moony had probably figured out the reason for Sirius' peculiar mood almost immediately and just neglected to say anything before now. If James had a tendency to pry, Remus had a tendency to let things be. But it was all out in the open now. Unfortunately. Sirius let his head drop into his hands. Circe he was tired. He quite distinctly did _not_ want to deal with questions about what he had termed 'The Granger Situation' from his friends at the moment, no matter how well intentioned they happened to be. But it seemed that as was all too typical, he wasn't about to get what he wanted.

"Did she say something to you?" James wanted to know, immediately ready to launch into hyper-protective overdrive at the first hint of any possible slight which may have been done to one of his friends. It was as predictable and mildly irritating as it was reassuring.

Sirius had to roll his eyes. "Well, we did spend about four hours together, so yeah, we exchanged a few words."

James frowned. "You know what I mean, Sirius," he said flatly.

"Granger didn't do anything to hurt my feelings, if that's what you're worried about," Sirius muttered, a reluctant concession to James' absolute inability to leave anything alone. "So you can drop that line of questioning."

"Well then what the hell happened? Because Remus is right, that's when you started acting so weird!"

Sirius tipped his head back, staring at the muddled grey sky revealed by the translucent ceiling of the Great Hall .

"Look, it's nothing to do with Granger or the detention. I just haven't been able to sleep the past couple nights, is all."

James huffed, clearly unsatisfied with this explanation, which Sirius really thought was quite unfair, because it wasn't even entirely a lie. He _hadn't_ been able to sleep the last couple of nights, but his insomnia very much _did_ have something to do with Granger and their shared detention. Not that he was going to tell James that, no matter how much his best friend insisted on prying.

"I don't believe you," James informed him.

Sirius shrugged. "That's your prerogative, mate."

"Sirius, come on-" James started, likely intent on needling Sirius about the matter for the rest of breakfast like the annoyingly persistent son of a bitch he was (no disrespect to Mrs. Potter) but Remus, in an act of charity, cut him off before he could.

"Leave it, James," advised the Marauder's resident werewolf and peacemaker.

"I just don't understand!" James protested, not willing to let the matter drop quite so easily.

"Leave it," Remus said again, more firmly this time.

"Fine," James grumbled, finally ceding to Moony's advice, albeit obviously reluctantly. "But you better be back to normal soon, Sirius, or I swear to Circe I will make you tell me what's wrong!"

Sirius nodded, tacitly acknowledging that he wasn't telling the whole truth, and sidled closer to James, stealing a particularly crispy piece of bacon off the other boy's plate. James nudged him, and Sirius let his head fall heavily on his best friend's shoulder.

"I really am tired, I'm not sleeping," he whispered, quietly enough that Peter wouldn't hear and Remus would pretend not to.

"I know," James replied, equally softly. "I'm just worried about you, mate. You usually only get like this over stuff with your family."

Sirius sat back up, dragging his head up from James' shoulder and avoiding the other boys' eyes.

"It's not, er, an entirely unrelated issue," he admitted, trailing off awkwardly and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirtsleeve, an action which did not go unnoticed by Remus, but which James completely missed. His messy haired best friend was too focused on Sirius' face, looking at the Black heir with perplexed concern.

"What do you mean?" James asked, keeping his voice low. He knew how Sirius hated to have his family issues broadcasted, even if the majority of their fellow classmates already knew at least something about them. Hogwarts was a small school, and Sirius doubted that anyone who had witnessed the howler he'd received from his parents upon his sorting into Gryffindor first year had forgotten it. His mother's voice, screeching in indignant, incandescent rage, had a way of sticking in people's minds. It had certainly haunted his nightmares for years.

Sirius let his eyes flick over to Granger. The curly haired, muggle born witch was sitting with Evans and Meadows, as had quickly become the new normal since her arrival at Hogwarts. She looked so innocent over there with her friends, lent over a piece of parchment and sipping distractedly at her coffee while she revised. Sirius never would have guessed upon first sight that Granger would have the ability to seemingly see right through him and, as a consequence, persistently infect his thoughts.

At first it had been her anger toward him, as palpable as it was unexplainable, that had intrigued Sirius at the same time as it had wounded him. But ever since he'd involved himself in her encounter with the Slytherin's, Granger's behavior toward him had begun to morph and evolve in confusing ways, culminating in what had happened during their detention together. It was possible Granger was the most vexing, mystifying, confounding witch he'd ever encountered.

"She's…observant," Sirius finally settled on, a cryptic explanation, but one weighty with meaning nonetheless.

"Who is?" Peter wanted to know.

Sirius rolled his eyes, not bothering to explain. Talk about the opposite of observant. He loved Pete, he really did, but he could freely admit that he didn't often have the most patience for him.

James was frowning again, looking troubled. Sirius suspected he was going to be responsible for giving his best friend wrinkles.

"Look, it's fine," Sirius attempted to reassure him. "I've just got a lot of things on my mind right now. If I don't snap out of it in a couple of days you can feel free to slap me and see if that does anything, alright?"

James smiled wryly, shaking his head and clapping Sirius on the back. "Well, I'm game if you are, mate."

* * *

Sirius was trying to be normal, honestly he was, but in the aftermath of his detention with Granger normality was proving to be a difficult task. He'd been consumed with thoughts about Granger and their detention since it had happened, and this held true no matter how hard he tried to distract himself with other things. What he really needed, Sirius mused, in addition to possibly actual dreamless sleep potion to help with his insomnia, was a type of dreamless sleep potion that was meant to be taken during the day when you were awake. But Sirius supposed that's why firewhiskey existed. Not that he'd yet had the opportunity to try very much of that. He was certain he could get his hands on some if he tried hard enough, but his friends were already fretting over him enough already, and Sirius really didn't want to do anything to spur further concern for himself on their part. So, without any viable alternatives, he was simply stuck with his thoughts. They were mainly centered on Granger and his family, neither of which were topics Sirius really wanted to dwell on.

His detention with Granger was by far the most bizarrely, unreal detention he'd ever participated in. And that included the time last year that Filch had made him and James give his cat a bath. The Caretaker had hovered over them the whole time, uncomfortably close, flinching violently every time he or James made a move toward his precious pet, and eventually just taking over the task himself. Sirius really hadn't thought it was possible to top that one, at least not so soon, but the other night with Granger definitely had it beat.

Sirius had expected the evening to be long and dragging; a detention not spent in the company of at least one of his fellow Marauders was typically something to be endured. And this one had had the added, unpleasant bonus of taking place with Granger, whom Sirius had been pretty sure at the time hated him, and Slughorn, a man whom Sirius definitely hated at all times regardless of circumstance. But once Old Sluggy had made his excuses and waddled on out of there, leaving it just him and Granger in the dungeons, things had pretty quickly gone off the rails in a way Sirius never could have anticipated.

He'd been so pissed when she'd first seen his scar; pissed at himself for forgetting to renew the glamour charm on it, pissed at Granger for having seen it, and pissed at the understanding of what the scar meant that he saw in her eyes. He'd felt violated. Sirius wasn't used to being made to feel vulnerable, and certainly not so abruptly and unexpectedly. It wasn't a state he ever really allowed himself to occupy, and with good reason. He didn't like Granger knowing that shit about him; about his fucked up family, his fucked up defense mechanisms, his fucked up life.

But he did like how she'd touched him. And the way she'd let him touch her. There had been something in the way she'd looked at him too, in that long moment when she'd been stroking his scar, something he'd both craved and yet instinctually wanted to recoil from. It hadn't been pity, thank fuck. Pity he wouldn't have been able to stand. But he hadn't seen that in her gaze, just a kind of sad, weary understanding, and a brittle sense of Granger's own vulnerability laid bare in her brown eyes. She'd been just as unseated and emotionally raw as him right then, Sirius knew, and for that reason he hadn't broken away from her.

No one had ever touched any of Sirius' scars before, excepting Kreacher, the Black family's demonic house elf, who was sometimes dispatched by his mother to treat his wounds when their extremity necessitated it. But the elf's ministrations were never tender, and he performed them begrudgingly, out of devotion to Sirius' mother, not because he had any sympathy for Sirius himself, whom he clearly disliked, taking his cue from his beloved mistress. The feeling of antipathy was mutual between them. Granger's touch hadn't recalled that of the elf's at all. Her small fingers had been gentle and deliberate, whereas Kreacher's long, spindly ones had always been harsh and perfunctory. It was a foreign sensation for the young Black heir to be touched in such a way, with such sympathetic understanding. It had been disconcerting in some sense, that understanding. For the sake of its novelty and also what it signified.

Sirius had been fascinated by her own scar as well, and blown away that Granger had shown it to him. He hadn't been able to resist reaching out to touch it after she'd revealed it to him, to explore its strange, beautiful lines for himself. Granger's breath had caught when he'd reached out to her, when his fingers had first brushed up so shockingly against her skin; a miniscule, involuntary reaction on her part that he'd found inexplicably intoxicating. He liked her scar, was captivated by it. He'd never seen its' like before. It was like a tattoo imprinted on her skin, healed completely smooth, and delicate, despite the deep, oxblood lines of it, standing out with such vivid color against Granger's pale, otherwise unmarked skin.

He still couldn't believe that she'd shown it to him at all, much less let him touch it so intimately. It had felt like a privilege, unexpectedly bestowed upon him and meant to be treasured all the more for its' precious rarity. He'd been deeply affected by the whole experience, as had Granger, he thought, but Sirius still wasn't really sure why, or even how, the circumstances had come about in the first place. It was like a hazy dream which lingered when you woke, the feeling of which you couldn't entirely recapture despite its potency. When he'd been stroking Granger's scar, utterly enthralled, he'd felt after a while a growing sense of possessiveness, strange, fierce and undeniable.

The fact that her mark looked like a star burst open had felt all too significant to Sirius in that heady moment, given his name and the chaotic nature which he tended to ascribe to himself. It had felt like the scar was meant for him, just for him, and that Granger should hide it not because it was ugly, but because it was the opposite of that, and because it was meant to be looked upon and touched only by him, Sirius Black. In the aftermath of it all, when his head had cleared a bit, Sirius had felt ridiculous. It was Granger's scar and it didn't belong to him just because he had seen it any more than his scar belonged to her for the same reason. The fact that he'd harbored such a stupid, fanciful notion, even briefly, was frankly embarrassing. He was never telling _anyone_ , and not just because doing so would constitute a betrayal of Granger's trust. Sirius didn't even want to think about the incident, much less divulge the idiotic thoughts which had been swirling around his brain the whole time him and Granger had been locked in their strange…whatever it had been. Except, frustratingly, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

And he hadn't even gotten to the bit where he'd inadvertently felt the girl up yet! It was probably best not to even think of that, but again, Sirius found he couldn't help himself. It wasn't exactly something that was easy to block out or put from his mind. He hadn't meant to do it. It had honestly been mortifying, and not at all what he'd had in mind for the first time he felt a girl's breast. Granger had been completely shocked when it'd happened, as had Sirius himself. Her mouth had fallen open in a round, startled, 'o', before she'd lurched away from him like he had spattergroit. She'd moved quickly, but not before Sirius had time to be left with the impression of her breast. It hadn't seemed overly large or anything, from what Sirius could tell, but it hadn't been nonexistent either; rather it felt like it might fit comfortably in his hand, if he were ever to get the opportunity to palm it for real instead of just brushing lightly up against its side.

Granger's breast had felt soft and warm, in the brief moment when his hand had touched it. Those were vague, obvious descriptors, but it was one thing to have a general idea of what a girl's breast would feel like, and another thing to have it so pleasantly confirmed, albeit in an atypical and accidental fashion. It had to be with Granger, of all girls, Sirius thought with a bitter shake of his head. Someone who's breasts he'd never given more than a passing thought to! And, as a 13 year old boy, he spent a not insubstantial amount of time thinking about girls' breasts. He'd just never before thought of Granger's, having up till recently been rather more concerned with her obvious, seething hatred of him than what she may have looked like under her school sweater. Well, he was certainly thinking about her breasts now.

And It wasn't like Granger had the biggest breasts or anything. Far from it. Dorcas Meadows, for one, certainly boasted a lot larger of a pair hanging off of her chest. But their relative smallness didn't mean the thought of Granger's breasts were any less titillating to him. Sirius also knew that they might get bigger. He didn't have sisters, but he wasn't completely ignorant when it came to female biological processes. He knew, for instance, that there was hope among his family that his cousin Narcissa's admittedly tiny breasts would get bigger when she finally got her period. Narcissa was 16, a fifth year, and her cycle still hadn't arrived.

Sirius was loathe that he knew such information about his cousin, but Cissy's late come menstruation had been the subject of gossip in the family for a few years now. Her as of yet lack of apparent fertility had drawn much concern and served to complicate her prospective marriage negotiations somewhat, from what Sirius had heard. His aunt had been known to complain loudly, and sometimes in public, that Narcissa's lack of period was surely because of her bird like eating habits. It was rare that Sirius ever felt bad for his cousin, she was usually completely insufferable, but he knew that she was humiliated by such talk, as anyone would be. He couldn't help but feel pangs of awkward sympathy for her whenever the topic came up. But he wanted to think about his cousin Narcissa's breasts even less than he wanted to Granger's. Significantly less, if he was honest with himself. He wondered idly if Granger had gotten her period yet? Sirius shook his head. Godric, he was a gross person.

It was actually sort of annoying, the memory of how Granger had felt popping into his head at the most inopportune times. During quidditch practice, for instance, which was an inconvenient time to be distracted given that he was usually perched on a broom and being attacked by preternaturally vicious balls. More dangerous, though, than the actual memory, was the tantalizing, tempting possibility of what might have happened had Granger displayed so much as a hint of receptiveness beneath her shock. Had she not jerked away from him so quickly and instinctively. If she hadn't leapt away from him, if her mouth had just dropped open into that little 'o' of shock at his touch, maybe if she'd been too shocked to move, he would've acted on an instinct of his own.

It was so easy for Sirius to imagine, too easy, what it would have been like to wrap his hand around the whole of Granger's breast; to sneak it into her bra and cup her fully, to swipe his thumb over her nipple, just as he'd swiped it earlier over her scar. Maybe she'd tip her head back, her mouth falling open in a combination of shock and pleasure. Maybe her breath would hitch. Or maybe she'd moan, softly, involuntarily, in response to him as he worked his hand over her breast. Maybe he'd reach for the other one too, and maybe-Godric, he really had to fucking stop. Now. Sirius shook his head, attempting to get a hold of himself.

He felt uncharacteristically bad about his thoughts, a kind of self-censorship with which he usually didn't bother inside his own head. But it was as if by his inability to quit focusing on the feel of Granger's breast he were devaluing the whole rest of their encounter. Sirius still wasn't sure how he felt about everything that had passed between them that night in detention, but he did know that way they had reacted to each other's scars, and the emotions which had been stirred up in each of them through the process of revealing themselves so vulnerably to one another, felt significant. That it felt important in some way that he couldn't quite name or pin down. It had felt that way to him at least, and to Granger too, if he was any decent judge. Sirius didn't want to cheapen any of that by dwelling crassly on the feel of Granger's breast in his hand, especially when she'd so clearly been uncomfortable with that aspect of what had happened. It felt almost disrespectful for his thoughts to linger there, but so far he hadn't had any luck in redirecting them.

The obvious solution, which Sirius had arrived at now after a couple of days of preoccupation, was that he needed to get his hands on some other girl's breasts in order to push the thought of Granger's from his mind. Dorcas Meadows maybe. Sirius had certainly spent quite a lot of time thinking about what was under _her_ sweater. Not that Dorcas was very likely to let him feel anything at all of hers, but you never knew. Probably, though, it would be best if he looked outside of Gryffindor for options. He'd likely have a good chance with one of those simpering Hufflepuff girls, Sirius mused. The ones who stared wistfully at him in classes, and trailed after him in the corridors, a gaggle of giggling, blonde idiots following behind him. Sirius usually found their behavior annoying, but a couple of them weren't bad looking at all. And he could deal with annoying. He shared a dorm with James, Remus and Peter. It was a promising idea, Sirius decided.

* * *

Later that night, Sirius found himself predictably unable to sleep. It was now his third night in a row spent lying awake with his mind spinning, and Sirius was becoming increasingly miserable for it. It seemed that Granger and his tendency for persistent insomnia when he had a lot on his mind were conspiring together to drive him slowly insane. After a couple of restless hours spent listening to Peter's agonizingly loud snores reverberate around the dorm room like some kind of waking nightmare involving a chainsaw, Sirius sat up sharply in bed. This was no use, he wasn't sleeping tonight. He got up, digging a jumper out of his trunk and shrugging it on, glaring savagely at a peaceably sleeping Remus as he did so. Somehow, despite the volume of Peter's snoring and Remus' werewolf enhanced sense of hearing, his friend managed to be sound asleep. How the fuck was _that_ fair?

It occurred to Sirius, as he made his way unhappily and loudly down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room (he was entirely too sleep deprived to bother being considerate of other people's feelings and/or normative sleep schedules) that Remus had probably erected a silencing charm around his bunk, thus ensuring his tranquil slumber despite his overly sensitive ears. Clever little sod, Moony was. Sirius would have considered doing the same thing in the future, but Pete's snoring wasn't really what had been keeping him awake these past few nights anyway. He slept like the dead when his head wasn't all fucked up. He was always a bit put out when he missed late night thunderstorms. He'd welcome one now, Sirius thought, heading for his favorite chair in the common room, the overstuffed one located directly in front of the fire. He could do with a distraction at the moment. Besides, a bit of thunder and lightning would suit his mood.

Sirius barreled single-mindedly toward his favorite chair, intent on throwing himself into it and spending the next few hours staring into the hypnotizing flames of the low-burning fire. So intent was he on this endeavor, that he missed until the last possible second that his chair was already occupied by a diminutive, bushy haired girl reading a ridiculously oversized book. As a result of his lack of attention, Sirius almost threw himself on top of Granger, a horrifying prospect. Fortunately, he was able to use his quidditch honed reflexes to redirect his body in midair so that he ended up landing not on Granger's lap, but in an undignified pile of limbs at her feet. As Sirius lay there on the ground attempting to gather what remained of his dignity (not much) Granger slowly lowered her book, revealing a horrified visage staring down at him with a combination of shock and dismay writ across her features.

" _What_ are you doing?" she said, her pert little mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Me?" Sirius protested, sitting up and rubbing petulantly at his elbow. "It's 11 o'clock at night, what are _you_ doing?"

"Well, I was trying to enjoy my book when I was ever so rudely interrupted," Granger said pissily, slamming her oversized tome down onto the end table beside her chair and wrinkling her nose. "And what does the time matter?"

"It's late, is all," Sirius explained tersely. "I didn't think anyone else would be in here."

"Well, obviously, you were wrong," Granger informed him needlessly. He'd quite obviously become acutely aware of her presence the moment he'd almost fallen into her lap.

"Merlin, Granger, why is it you're always here?" Sirius asked, speaking to Granger as much as he was to the fates that were so clearly determined to fuck with him and use the muggleborn witch as their instrument.

"I'm hardly _always_ here, Black," Granger retorted, her voice clipped. "But I am here now, so if you could kindly take it upon yourself to relocate to somewhere else, that would be much appreciated"

Sirius snorted, readjusting himself so he was leaning up against the chair that Granger occupied, facing away from her so he didn't have to look at her pinched face. "Fat chance."

He'd come to down to the common room to try and get away from thoughts of Granger, and now here he was being confronted with the real thing. The fates were obviously fucking with him. If it had been happening to someone else, it would have almost been funny. Sirius stared determinedly at the fire, hoping the flames might hypnotize his mind into a state of blissful numbness and trying to ignore Granger as best he could. Unfortunately she was making it virtually impossible to do so, given that she kept talking. _Girls_. They never did seem to know when to shut up.

"Circe, Black, aren't you going to _move_?" she demanded, emphasizing the last word of her request with a light kick of her sock-clad foot to his shoulder.

Sirius struggled to muffle a laugh. Whatever Granger may have thought, her little kick had done nothing to provide him with any incentive to move . When it came to physical motivation tactics, it was certainly a lot less persuasive than a punch to the face. Apparently Granger liked him at least marginally better than she did Malfoy.

"Actually, no, don't think I will," Sirius responded, leaning further back against the chair and pinning Granger's dangling foot behind his back. "I'm quite happy here, thanks."

"On the floor?" Granger said incredulously. He could feel her tugging ineffectually at her leg in an attempt to free her pinned foot.

"Yep," Sirius said, popping the 'p' at the end of the word.

Granger grunted, abandoning conversation with him in favor of focusing more fully on her continued efforts to regain control of her foot. Eventually, unable to make any progress, she settled for leaning forward and flicking him in the ear. Hard. Sirius relented, leaning forward slightly so that Granger could pull her foot back up into the safe confines of her chair.

"Fine," she stated primly. "I'll just ignore you then. I'll sit here and read my book and you can languish there on the floor, slowly developing a headache from sitting too close to the fire. "

"Actually, Granger, I already have a headache," Sirius informed her, implying heavily in the tone of his voice that she was at least partially the reason for this. "But great, you do that."

He heard her flip a page in her book in a manner that seemed far too loud to be normal, but despite this little passive aggressive display of anger, it did seem that Granger was now intent on ignoring him. Gradually, she seemed to become reabsorbed in whatever book she was reading, her breathing normalizing and her foot eventually sneaking back down to its natural position resting just above his shoulder, occasionally brushing up inadvertently against his back. Granger didn't seem to notice this. She had clearly become much too caught up in her book to bother paying any more attention to Sirius, which suited him just fine. He stared fixedly at the fire, eventually managing to lose himself in his own thoughts, despite the fact that Granger kept letting out soft, subconscious little hums and mutters in reaction to what she was reading.

Merlin, this whole situation was a right, bloody mess. It had now been made abundantly, farcically, clear to Sirius that he was not going to be afforded the luxury of any kind of distance from Granger while attempting to sort through his feelings about their detention. He was now also positive that Remus had at least partially worked out something of what had happened. He'd seen the way Remus had caught him fiddling uncomfortably with his shirtsleeve earlier at breakfast when he'd been talking about how freakishly observant Granger was. The werewolf knew his tells better than anyone, even James. Whether that could be attributed to their close friendship, Remus' supernatural abilities, or just the other boy's natural perceptiveness Sirius didn't know. But he had little doubt that Remus had likely put two and two together.

Moony knew about the scars that tended to decorate Sirius' body in the wake of time spent with his family, and they weren't yet that far off of the summer holidays. Scars imbued with dark magic had a way of lingering, which Remus knew better than any of them. Sirius always made an effort to hide his, even from his friends, but Remus saw through all his attempts. The two of them had never spoken about it, but they didn't need to. There was a mutual understanding that passed wordlessly between them; an understanding that expressed itself through significant looks and the occasional comforting touch, but never in the form of any open acknowledgement.

James had caught the odd glimpse of Sirius' scars as well, but he was either wildly innocent or just willfully oblivious to what they might indicate. Sirius suspected it was a combination of both factors. In any case, it had always been easy for him to explain away any ugly marks to his best friend as benign injuries which he hid out of vanity, not shame. Peter, of course, had never noticed anything, which was just fine with Sirius. He had no desire to talk about his scars with Peter, much less delve into how he had gotten them. Frankly, he didn't have any desire to do that with James either, even if he was his best friend. James was protective enough of him when it came to his family already, he didn't need the agonizing details of what exactly went on at Grimmauld Place spelled out for him by Sirius. It would only be a miserable experience for the both of them, and Sirius had no desire to put James through that, or to go through it himself, come to that. But with Remus it was different. With Remus it was okay, because Remus had scars of his own. Sirius didn't need to explain anything to him, because the other boy had simply always intuitively understood.

Remus, more than anyone else, knew that some scars were inevitable and you just had to take them as your due and get on with it. At least Sirius' would fade in time. Remus', having been inflicted by his werewolf side, weren't likely to ever fade at all, poor bastard. Moony was self-conscious as all hell about them, not that anyone cared that he had scars. Certainly not any of the other Marauders. But Remus cared. And Sirius supposed that most people were self-conscious about their particular set of physical imperfections, no matter what anyone else said or didn't say about them. It seemed to be true of him, Remus and Granger anyway. Sirius was lucky enough to have the benefit of his scars being temporary disfigurements, gradually fading while he was at school only to be inevitably renewed when he was forced to return to Grimmauld Place and his parents. He didn't even think they were particularly ugly, his scars. It was what they signified that was ugly to him, a physical manifestation of his parent's dissatisfaction with him; a semi-permanent reminder of their disdain and the disastrous circumstances of his home life.

Not that it was all that uncommon for old pureblood families such as the Black's to exercise physical discipline with their children, especially unruly, uncooperative ones like himself. When you had magic at your disposal you didn't even have to get your hands dirty. A considerable perk, at least in the view of his mother. Walburga Black was typically more vicious with her wand than Sirius' father, who tended more toward, cool, disdainful detachment when it came to his children; this attitude interrupted only rarely by the odd burst of unexpected rage. Orion Black saw overt emotional displays as a sign of weakness, connotating a lack of control. By this reasoning, he usually left such business to his wife, who was always happy to be demonstrative of her lack of pleasure with her eldest son. Whether physically or vocally, Walburga never hesitated to make it clear to Sirius just how disappointed she and his father were in him. This was a fact that he had understood from a young age. He thought he'd made his peace with it, relatively. Or at least that's what he told himself.

His parents, he knew, assumed that he would eventually bend to their wishes and become the pureblood heir they'd always expected him to be. Sure, he'd been sorted into Gryffindor, an embarrassment and an annoyance, but not irrevocably damning in and of itself. Not something that was impossible to come back from. And after Sirius had played out this rebellious phase of his youth, Walburga and Orion expected that he'd return to the fold of pureblood respectability, quietly and naturally, as though he'd never deviated from the expectations which had been laid upon him by them at birth. Sirius' own inclinations, whatever they may have been, were negligible to his parents and always had been. But they weren't negligible to him. And eventually, when his parents were finally forced to reckon with the immutable reality of his convictions, shit was going to come to a head. Sirius had a feeling that the fall out, when it did come, was going to be brutal. He figured that he was likely still a few years off from the presumed eventuality of his own disownment though, so perhaps it was best not to dwell on it.

That was James' view anyway; his messy haired best friend conveying his discomfort with the subject through both word and gesture whenever Sirius brought it up, which to be fair, was probably far too often. The soon to be supplanted Black heir could admit that his coming disownment had become something of an obsession for him. Especially since his brother Regulus' sorting into Slytherin. Truthfully Sirius wasn't sure whether he was dreading the event or actually looking forward to it. It was inevitable, in his mind, so he figured he might as well embrace it. For James, though, it wasn't a sure thing yet. His friend simply couldn't wrap his head around the idea of a family dynamic in which any and all love which might have once existed had been completely sucked out of the equation a long time ago.

Sirius had met the Potters before, and they were wonderful people. Actually, James' parents were pretty much the platonic ideal of nurturing, familial love. For Sirius, when he had first encountered them, it had been a bizarre, completely foreign experience to watch how Mr. and Mrs. Potter had interacted with James. The affectionate indulgence with which they treated their son had been almost incomprehensible to Sirius in the beginning. _Especially_ since they were purebloods. But Sirius had realized very quickly in the Potter's presence that they were an entirely different brand of pureblood than his own family.

As a child, before Hogwarts, Sirius had only ever been allowed to interact with pureblood families that were much like his own; politically conservative, blatantly bigoted in their hatred and disdain of muggles, and desperate to maintain their blood purity at any cost, no matter how much inbreeding was necessitated. He'd mostly spent time around his cousins, and his aunt and uncle were hardly the ideal model of loving parents. His cousins were all girls, so they'd probably been beaten less than him and Reg, just by virtue of the fact that their value to their parents was wrapped up in their potential marriages, and therefore their looks. But that wasn't much of a consolation prize as a far as Sirius was concerned, and he'd certainly seen his aunt dole out quite a few vicious, open-hand, slaps to his cousins over the years. It hadn't been until he'd met James and his parents that Sirius had realized it was possible for families to function in a way that was driven by love and affection rather than fear and an imposed sense of duty.

So really, Sirius couldn't blame his friend for holding out hope that him and his parents would eventually find a way to reconcile and coexist peacefully. Why should James have any easier of a time understanding the Black family dynamic then Sirius did understanding that of the Potter's? James had never met Sirius' parents, a relief to all parties involved, and so had never directly experienced their particular brand of parenting philosophy. And there were a great many unpleasant facets of that philosophy which Sirius had no intention of ever enlightening his friend on. Besides, he secretly found James' naivete endearing, and he couldn't quite bare to crush it just yet. It came from a good place.

James had always been the most empathetic of the Marauders, perhaps due to his lack of any real problems himself. Which sounded mean, Sirius knew, but compared to him and Remus, James had had a charmed childhood, something the messy haired bloke would fully admit, because he was appreciative of it. In the end, James really just wanted all of his friends to be happy, or at least as close to that as any one of them were capable of getting. Remus with his 'furry little problem', Sirius with his fucked up family, and Peter with his insecurity and anxiety issues; they really were a motley bunch to contend with. Sirius didn't know how James put up with the rest of them, to be honest.

It was an admittedly depressing subject, the imminent likelihood of him being blasted off the family tree. This was both a figurative and literal possibility, as among all the other dreary decor which adorned Sirius' ancestral home, there was a giant, enchanted tapestry in the front room which depicted the entirety of the Black family line, the branches magically expanding whenever a new Black was birthed. It was just as often though, that erstwhile Blacks were blasted off the tree for perceived betrayals of their bloodline and family; offenses such as marrying anyone less than a pureblood or having the unfortunate luck of being born a squib. The result was a tapestry littered with a variety of ugly, singe marks. The most recent of these blemishes had previously denoted his cousin Andromeda, who'd had the stones or bad taste, opinions differed depending on who you asked, to elope with a muggleborn.

His mother had obliterated all evidence of her niece from the family tapestry with an air of disgusted self-righteousness. Of course she'd dragged Sirius and Regulus in to the drawing room to watch the spectacle, intent on imparting to her sons the consequences for such abominable behavior as daring to marry for love rather than duty. She'd shot Sirius a particularly vicious, significant look as she vanished the ashes that had previously made up his cousin's place on the family tree. His mother wasn't entirely stupid; she knew if any of her own children were likely to break ranks it was him. It had been a very illustrative experience for Sirius, on the whole. He wasn't sure what Regulus had gotten out of it, if anything beyond their mother's intended lesson in the importance of familial duty. His little brother had watched with wide, fearful eyes as their cousin's portion of the family tapestry was incinerated, and then cried when Walburga subsequently informed them that Andromeda was dead. He'd perhaps been too young at the time to understand that their mother was being figurative not literal, though Sirius had later tried to explain to his little brother that Andromeda wasn't _actually_ dead.

Sirius sighed. Regulus. He did love his little brother, whatever front of dislike he may have presented for the benefit of the wider Hogwart's population. He just didn't know what to do for him, especially now that Reg had gone and gotten himself sorted into Slytherin. Which is exactly what Regulus had probably wanted, Sirius was sure, but it didn't change the fact that it put his little brother more out of his reach than ever before. He couldn't protect him now, not in the way that he had always tried to at home, not nestled as he was among the snakes. But making sure he'd ended up in Slytherin had likely been Regulus' way of protecting himself, Sirius knew. His kid brother had always been good at that. Or he just had more self-control and self-preservation in him then Sirius did.

Regulus had the exact opposite approach that Sirius did regarding dealing with their parents. Reg was obedient and subservient at home, and especially in their presence; making himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, avoiding confrontation and abuse as best he could while molding himself into an approximation of the perfect, pureblood child. It wasn't a bad strategy, and Sirius could hardly fault his brother for it. To Regulus it was entirely natural; the safest and most expedient option, and therefore the one he took.

Regulus had never understood why Sirius acted the way he did, why he insisted on pushing and provoking their parents when it would have been a hell of a lot easier to just stay quiet and stay out of the way. His little brother had said as much to him, many times, in private expressions of desperate exasperation driven by how much it pained him to see his older brother treated so severely by their parents. But Sirius simply wasn't built for that kind of muted existence, and he could only maintain the illusion of diffident docility for so long before he exploded. At some point he'd stopped bothering to even try. Probably around the time he'd been sorted into Gryffindor. There'd really been no coming back from that, for Sirius at least, if not for his parents. And what could he say? He liked a good fight. Got his blood up.

He'd definitely taken his oppositional attitude and affinity for confrontation with him to Hogwarts, which probably explained why he'd gone rushing right into the middle of Granger's contentious situation with Malfoy and Avery the other day. Well, that and the fact that he wasn't totally lacking a sense of chivalry. He may not have been James, whose misguided, protective defensiveness of his precious 'Lily Flower' Sirius sometimes considered to be bordering on sickening, but he was still a Gryffindor, after all. Regulus, though, had decided to be a Slytherin. Sirius knew his little brother probably hadn't seen his sorting as a choice at all, but Sirius couldn't help but view it as such.

Really, though, he didn't blame Regulus for what he'd done. How could he? But as a result of his little brother's self-protective measure, Sirius now felt that he couldn't save him either. Couldn't blame him, couldn't save him, couldn't do anything for him, really. They both had to save themselves now. And maybe they both were, just in different ways. Because in the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, you did whatever you could to protect yourself and come out on the other side with as minimal an amount of damage as possible. Him and his brother had both made their choices on how best to do that for themselves, and now the consequences would fall where they may. For him and for Reg.

On some level though, Sirius still couldn't help but feel that he was abandoning his little brother. Despite the fact that Regulus had always made his own choices in regards to their family, especially in terms of how he dealt with their parents, Sirius was still the older brother. The overtly antagonistic way that he behaved at home had always been at least partially driven by his desire to make sure their parents focused most of their negative attention on him rather than Regulus. But maybe all that that had done was serve to push him and his brother into their perspective boxes; the difficult son versus the dutiful, the Gryffindor versus the Slytherin. In some ways it felt like him and Reg had both chosen their sides a long time ago. That they'd chosen opposite sides a long time ago. And now Sirius didn't know what he was supposed to do. He told himself that he couldn't help Regulus now. Not anymore, not since his sorting. But maybe he told himself that not because it was true, but because it was just easier for him. And for that, Sirius hated himself.

He'd always found that he had a keen ability to see the ugliness lurking inside him better than anybody else. His parent's detested him, of course, but that was because he'd failed spectacularly to conform to their idea of the perfect pureblood heir. Their profound dislike of him had less to do with his own set of faults than it had to do with theirs, though he was sure his parents, in their esteemed wisdom, would have disagreed with his assessment. Unlike Regulus, he didn't shrink from opposing, or even full on fighting, with their parents. Sometimes it was worth a little pain to be able to say what you really felt; to scream back at his mother until she snapped and slapped him, or far more likely, cursed him. He didn't like the pain exactly, but he didn't exactly mind it either, most of the time. And he loved the sick satisfaction that came from pushing Walburga beyond her breaking point, something she was usually at the edge of when it came to dealing with him anyway.

"You're brooding," Granger pronounced from up above him in her chair, interrupting Sirius' dark ruminations on his family. He'd almost forgotten she was there. She nudged him with her foot, the one he'd trapped earlier, the action bringing him more clearly back to the present. His and Granger's relationship had certainly gotten a lot more physical since the incident with the Slytherins, Sirius reflected bemusedly.

"And I thought you were supposed to be ignoring my general existence and reading your book," he pointed out.

"Hmm," Granger hummed noncommittally. "You do that a lot, you know."

"What, read?" Sirius asked, determined to be obtuse on purpose.

She kicked at him lightly again with her foot, and he grunted in reaction. Not that it had hurt. Granger's foot was so ridiculously tiny it was almost laughable.

"Brood," Granger said.

"Whatever," Sirius muttered, which he could admit was not up to his usual, biting, witty standard when it came to comebacks, but in his defense he hadn't really slept in three days.

Granger tutted at him, _actually tutted at him_ , but after a couple of moments of silence Sirius felt it was safe to assume that she'd blessedly decided to drop the subjection of his emotional state and go back to her book.

He shook his head, a weak attempt to clear the mess of depressing thoughts which had been dogging him so unrelentingly as of late. It might have been largely ineffectual, but sometimes it just felt good to do something physical. Sirius contemplated waking the rest of the Marauders and dragging them down to the quidditch pitch for an impromptu game so he could let off some steam. But it was after midnight by now, and Remus, for one, wouldn't thank him for a wakeup call. Not with the quiz they were set to have in Transfiguration tomorrow. McGonagall wasn't one to start out soft pitching (a muggle sports metaphor which Sirius had picked up from Remus, and which he took great pleasure in over-using even though baseball had turned out to be excruciatingly boring). Sirius sighed. He could go by himself, but that wasn't nearly as fun as with the lads. So instead he was reduced to sitting in the common room like a sad sack with Granger, of all fucking people, as his only distinctly unwelcome form of company.

He supposed he could always ask Granger to go fly with him. Not that he thought she actually would. Sirius snorted at the thought of Granger on a broom. Somehow she seemed to him like more of an indoor witch.

"What's funny?" Granger wanted to know from above him, apparently not as absorbed in her book as Sirius had assumed.

He tipped his head back to look at her, letting it loll back onto the chair and Granger's legs, which she'd tucked compactly under her. Sirius couldn't fathom how that position could possibly be comfortable, but Granger appeared quite content with it. Cozy even.

"Wanna sneak down to the quidditch pitch with me and go flying?" Sirius asked, figuring he had nothing to lose by trying. Merlin, he was pathetic. Had he really become so desperate for company that he'd been reduced to begging Granger to spend time with him? Apparently so. "C'mon, Granger, I'll even let you ride my broom."

It was Granger who snorted this time, either at the potential double meaning of what he'd just said, or at the absurdity with which she clearly regarded his request. Sirius wasn't sure. She flipped another page in her book.

"Tempting, but I think I'll pass," she said dryly.

Sirius stood up, turning around slowly to face her. Granger peered up at him from over her book, looking vaguely annoyed and also highly skeptical.

"C'mon, Granger," Sirius wheedled. "Have a little fun, eh?"

"I am having fun," Granger declared primly. "I just choose to utilize my free time by indulging in a little light, pleasure reading rather than engaging in a highly dangerous and ultimately pointless sport."

"Pointless!" Sirius sputtered, outraged at this characterization of what he considered to be the greatest sport in the world, Wizarding or Muggle. At least if baseball was any indication of the level of excitement which existed in Muggle sports. "And _light_ pleasure reading?"

He snatched Granger's book, which was positively gigantic and must have weighed a good seven pounds, right out of her hands and dropped it onto an end table, where it landed with a cacophonously loud thump.

"Hey!" she protested, jumping up from her chair and glaring at him.

"Frankly, Granger, it might do you some good to take a break from your book before you give yourself a headache," Sirius advised her.

"The only thing contributing to my getting a headache right now is you, Black," she said hotly.

"Fresh air can only help," he parried.

"It's against the rules!" Granger wailed. She was becoming more and more worked up. Her hair was practically giving off sparks.

Sirius leveled her with a flat look. "You know what else is against the rules, Granger?" he queried. "Punching Slytherin Prefects in the face, but that didn't seem to stop you last month with Malfoy, did it? Somehow I think sneaking out for a little late night quidditch pales somewhat in comparison in terms of wrong doing."

Hermione huffed at him, looking rather like a puffed up cat who's tail had been trod on. "Are you going to keep bringing that up?" she asked, raising a stern eyebrow at him and folding her arms across her chest, inevitably drawing Sirius' eye there. Granger's own set of deep, brown orbs were narrowed on him in consternation. "That would be rather rude of you, don't you think?"

Sirius shrugged. "Well, I'm rather rude, or so I've been told, so…" he trailed off, shrugging unapologetically.

Sirius, even at the age of just 13, was already well aware that he was good looking enough to get away with all manner of rude, obnoxious behavior and have it be passed off as a form of charming arrogance. There wasn't much he'd inherited from his family of which he felt he could be proud, but his bone structure and aristocratic good looks were the exception to the rule.

Granger snorted. "At least you're self-aware about it," she muttered in response to his self-assessment of his own rudeness. "Though that certainly begs the question of why you don't work to improve on your habits."

Sirius let out a long, slow breath, valiantly restraining himself from attempting to pull out all of his hair in exasperation.

"Merlin's fucking pants, you are no fun, Granger, you know that?" he accused.

She raised a judgmental eyebrow at him, an art which she'd clearly perfected.

"And you're quite crass, aren't you?" she rejoined, her tone that of someone entirely confident in the superiority of her own vocabulary choices.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Along with being rude, yeah, it's one of my finer qualities. That and brooding, according to you."

"Well, I've always excelled at empirical observation," Granger said archly.

"Which is just a fancy way of saying you pick up on the obvious," Sirius pointed out. "No need to go awarding yourself any prizes for that, Granger."

Her eyebrow, yet again, was raised. He was beginning to think that haughty skepticism was Granger's default expression. "So you think your almost continual state of mercurial moodiness is obvious, do you Black?"

"Continual state of mercurial moodiness?" Sirius parroted, for lack of being able to come up with any other response just then. Where did she get this shit, he wondered? But he had to admit that her assessment, however pretentiously worded it was, was a harsh but undeniably accurate read of him. He didn't know why he expected anything else from Granger at this point. But then, he _never_ knew what to expect from Granger.

The truth was that Sirius hadn't thought it was obvious. He'd just wanted to wipe the vaguely smug look off of Granger's face, so he'd bit back at her in the way that had immediately occurred to him without thinking it through first. Upon reflection, he might have gone with 'just because you know a lot of big words, doesn't mean you always have to use them all in a single sentence' which really would have just been a decent piece of advice wrapped up in an insult, but the moment had passed. And now he wasn't sure what to think. His friends, of course, knew what an utterly moody bastard he was, but he hadn't thought anyone else was paying enough attention to perceive him as anything more than a carefree prankster, interchangeable with any of the other Marauders.

"It's not actually that obvious, just so you know," Granger informed him after a period of silence, her voice slightly less high strung than it had been. Slightly. "Only if you're looking."

Her eyes darted toward his wrist. His right wrist, on which one of the particularly nasty souvenirs of his summer holidays still dwelled, currently concealed by a glamour. Sirius struggled not to pull his shirtsleeve down, even though he knew nothing was visible at the moment. And besides, Granger had already seen the scar there.

"And you're looking?" Sirius asked her evenly, pinning her with his gray eyes. Granger shifted under his gaze, appearing mildly uncomfortable. Her own eyes were muddled with confusion.

"I guess I am," she said finally. "I-I can't seem to help it." She bit her lip in the wake of this admission, as though she hadn't quite meant to let it slip out.

Sirius just stared at her, struggling with his overtired mind to work out the meaning of Granger's words. She made no sense.

"Listen, I'm going to bed," Granger informed him, gathering up her obscenely large book ('light, pleasure reading' indeed) and plucking her wand off the end table to tuck it behind her ear. "Go play quidditch if you want. I won't tell on you."

Sirius had to laugh. "How charitable," he said, shaking his head. Granger tipped hers slightly in acknowledgement, as though she did actually feel she was being charitable, and then turned to go. Sirius watched as Granger walked away, staring at her back and her halo of ever chaotic hair as she retreated up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. He still didn't know what to make of her. Every interaction he had with the little witch only upended his impression of her and confused him more. He was fucking exhausted.

But not too exhausted for quidditch. Never too exhausted for quidditch. So after a moment Sirius headed up to the third year boy's dorm, intent on nixing James' cloak and retrieving his own broom from his trunk. Granger _had_ said she wouldn't tell on him, after all. He couldn't let such an opportunity go to waste. Carpe Diem and all that bull shit. It wasn't yet half past 1 in the morning, and Sirius had just enough time to get a little incognito flying in down on the pitch before he crawled back up to Gryffindor tower and crashed.

* * *

 _AN:_ _Hope you guys enjoyed! Again, sorry about how late the chap was. This took me so long, but I feel pretty good about it so I really hope you like it. I enjoyed getting more into Sirius' family background, and I really wanted to include a little of Andromeda and Narcissa because I actually really love them both, but I'm not sure how much either will come into the story! Reviews are love, let me know what you think y'all. I will not abandon this story, but sometimes it might take me awhile!_


	14. Seeds of Obsession and Doubt

_AN:_ _Not a very long chapter, but it felt like the right place to end it to me. At least it's up quick? Hope you guys like it!_

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Chapter 14: Seeds of Obsession and Doubt

Evidence of autumn's rapid advancement was now everywhere throughout Hogwarts, from the resplendently colored leaves which now adorned the many trees of the grounds, to the draftier than ever corridors of the castle. Hermione was enjoying the season immensely, ensconcing herself in cozy sweaters and scarves with increasing frequency, and taking greater pleasure than usual in the heat of her morning coffee. Already though, the biting wind which swirled about the fallen leaves scattering the grounds, kicking them up into mini-cyclones, carried on it the promise of the coming winter. For the moment though, Hermione was content to enjoy the current season, which had always been among her favorites, especially as experienced at Hogwarts. Everything about autumn was so pleasantly associated with scholasticism.

This October day, Hermione had chosen to park herself on a blanket beneath the boughs of a burly old oak located on the south west end of the grounds. She was participating in one of her favorite autumnal activities, weather permitting; studying outside. The wind was whipping around her hair a bit, even despite her hat, and there was an inconveniently placed acorn digging into her bum, but Hermione's concentration remained unbroken as she focused on her History of Magic essay. She'd never admitted it out loud, as it was a bit morbid, but she secretly _loved_ the goblin rebellions. Hermione didn't understand how anyone could think that history was a boring subject, especially magical history. Admittedly, Professor Bins was not the most stimulating of instructors, but the book they'd been assigned was undeniably engaging. At least Hermione thought so.

She was just in the process of editing her essay when she caught sight of Lily and Dorcas making their way down the path toward the refuge of her tree. Both girls were bundled up in oversized scarves, and bearing steaming mugs of what looked like hot, spiced pumpkin cider.

"We've come to rescue you," Dorcas announced.

"Or at least to provide you with some sustenance," Lily amended with a smile, offering Hermione a mug of the cider. The curly haired witch took it gratefully, having realized only just then how cold she had gotten studying outside for hours in the wind and chill.

"Thank you," she said, tossing back a gulp of the autumnal beverage. It was as deliciously tart as she had hoped, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout her chest. The effect was rather invigorating. "Perfect timing too, I'm just about finished here."

"Fabulous, that means you can come down to the pitch with us!" Dorcas chirped, grabbing hold of the crook of Hermione's elbow and steering her rather forcefully in the direction of the quidditch pitch. "It's Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, first match of the season."

"Dorcas, really," Hermione protested, hastening to pack up her belongings (one handed, as Dorcas had yet to release her arm) before the exuberant, blonde witch succeeded in dragging her away without them. "I have less than zero interest in quidditch."

"So do I," Dorcas informed her. "What I do have an interest in is gossiping about the cutest players, hurling insults at the other team, not to mention the referee, and keeping a vigilant look out for fights."

Hermione groaned. She had assumed that one benefit of living in the 1970's would be that she wouldn't be obligated to attend quidditch matches any longer, given that her best friend wasn't Gryffindor's star player anymore. It seemed she had miscalculated.

"Lily," she pleaded, hoping she might be able to draw the red head onto her side, and that together they might be able convince Dorcas that there were much better ways to spend their afternoon then watching quidditch.

Lily though, was in the process of pulling a lion branded hat out of her bag and tugging it firmly over the top of her head. "Sorry, Hermione," she said. "But I'm fiercely competitive. Let's head down, we'll want to get good seats."

* * *

"Black is playing well," Dorcas observed slyly about an hour into the match, nudging Hermione.

Hermione, who was sat between Lily and Dorcas with a book open on her lap, attempting to tune out the surrounding ,quidditch related melee in favor of getting some reading done, responded with a puzzled frown.

"Why did you just nudge me?" she asked Dorcas.

"Thought you might be interested, is all," the blonde said, shrugging in a manner which didn't quite pass for casual. Dorcas was rarely able to achieve being subtle about anything, and she certainly wasn't succeeding here.

"And why exactly would you think I would be interested in that?" Hermione wondered suspiciously, marking her book and snapping it closed.

"Oh, come on, Hermione, you're always staring at him. At first I thought you hated him, and then I thought you hated each other, but ever since that detention you had with him, all you and Black do is sneak glances at the other one when you think no one is looking. It'd be kind of cute, actually, if it weren't so obviously hopeless."

"That's not true at all!" Hermione cried, her mouth having fallen open in dismay.

"Well," Lily spoke up quietly, briefly tearing her eyes from the pitch, which she had been watching intently since the girls' arrival at the stadium, to look sympathetically over at Hermione, "I do think Dorcas is exaggerating a little, but she's not completely wrong either."

Hermione's expression was quickly becoming rather pinched.

"Black has been staring at your chest for weeks now," Dorcas informed her bluntly.

"He has not!" Hermione protested, folding her arms defensively over said chest.

Lily and Dorcas just looked at her, the flat disbelief clear on both of their faces. Eventually, Hermione deflated, her righteously indignant posture falling away under power of the combined stare of her friends. Though she'd been determined not to, it seemed she would have to tell Lily and Dorcas at least something of what had happened between her and Black during their detention. Not that Hermione wanted to, but what she wanted even less was for either of her friends to be getting any ridiculous ideas about some kind of burgeoning romantic attraction between her and Black. Of all the preposterous notions for them to take up! The very idea was ludicrous! She had to set Lily and Dorcas right.

"Fine," Hermione relented. "Maybe he has been staring, but it's not what you think. Black…saw something during our detention, " she admitted uncomfortably.

Lily's hands flew to her face with shock. "Not your breasts!?" she cried, entirely too loudly for Hermione's liking

"Shh!" Hermione hissed, blushing profusely just at the thought. She glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to them, but luckily, everyone else still seemed absorbed in the quidditch match. Remus Lupin was the only one looking even remotely in their direction, his cheeks bright pink from the cold (it was a good deal windier this high up in the stands than it was on the ground), but he was sitting too far away from them to have possibly heard anything.

"Not my breasts, no," Hermione whispered. Lily looked distinctly relieved at this revelation, while Dorcas appeared mildly disappointed. "Just something adjacent to them."

Lily frowned. "Adjacent? Whatever do you mean?" she stopped then, looking suddenly a lot less confused. "Oh," she said softly. "He saw your scar, didn't he Hermione?"

Hermione tightened the scarf around her neck self-consciously, nodding tightly. She didn't bother to ask how Lily knew about her scar. Though she took care to hide it, she'd been living in the same dorm as Lily for months now. It was hardly surprising to Hermione that her friend had managed to catch a glimpse of her scar after such an amount of time, observant as Lily was.

"What scar?" Dorcas wanted to know, her tone becoming apprehensive as she sensed the changing mood around her. The blonde was highly observant in her own way, but selectively so, and not quite on the level that Lily was. Clearly, she didn't know about Hermione's scar.

"I have a scar on my chest, just here," Hermione explained quietly to Dorcas, gesturing to the area between the top of her breasts where the mark sat, currently concealed beneath her multiple layers of clothing. "I got it over the summer, when-," she trailed off, staring down at her lap uncomfortably. She didn't like talking about her scar, and even more so, she didn't like being forced to lie to her friends about how she had gotten it. Luckily, Lily cut in to save her from having to do so.

"It's okay, Hermione," she said gently, reaching out to grasp her hand. "You don't have to say anything more."

Dorcas slipped a comforting arm around Hermione, nodding in agreement with Lily.

Hermione smiled softly, more grateful than her friends could know for their so easily given understanding. She let her head come to rest on Dorcas' shoulder, squeezing Lily's hand as she did so, drawing comfort from both girls. After a few moments, she sat up, making an effort to pull herself together.

Hermione let her eyes find Black's figure out on the pitch, watching dispassionately as he used his beater's bat to send a bludger sailing dangerously close to the head of one of Ravenclaw's chasers. Black's target was forced to swerve violently out of the way of the incoming bludger at the last moment, dropping the quaffle she'd been holding in the process. Hermione couldn't deny that Black was a deft hand at quidditch, but that may have been one of the only definitive statements she was able to make about him. There was, however, at least one more.

"Black and I don't like each other," Hermione said firmly. "We just know things about each other now, things we can't unknow."

Lily raised an eyebrow, filing that little admission away for later analysis. Black had found out about Hermione's scar, but what had Hermione found out about Black, Lily wondered? A few possibilities came to mind, but she certainly wasn't going to ask Hermione directly about any of them. She knew the girl well enough by now to know that she wasn't one to let her secrets slip out very easily, much less anyone else's.

"Alright," Dorcas was conceding, having sat up straight in an effort to be serious. "Point well taken, Hermione. I'll leave you alone about him. You can now feel free to stare at Black as much as you like without comment from me," she was met with a pair of unamused stares from Lily and Hermione. "That was the last one, I promise!" Dorcas pledged, throwing up her hands in supplication.

Hermione nodded in reluctant satisfaction. Dorcas liked to tease, she knew, but never at the expense of other people's true discomfort. She had clearly seen that it was a sensitive topic for Hermione, and she'd leave it alone from now on, no matter what she may have thought privately.

It wasn't a childish crush which drew Hermione's eyes to Sirius Black so frequently though, whatever mistaken beliefs Dorcas may have continued to harbor. Things were a great deal more complicated than that; more complicated than either Lily, Dorcas, or even Black himself, could have possibly fathomed. Almost immediately since her arrival in the 1970's, Black had done nothing but disrupt and disprove her preconceived notions about him. It was exceedingly irritating. Black was far from likeable most of the time, but the more interactions Hermione had with him, the harder it was for her to picture him as a future murderer.

She had expected, when she'd first arrived in the 1970's, for Black to already be deeply prejudiced against muggles and muggleborns, even if he made an effort to hide it. But Hermione had been able to detect no artifice in his disgusted, anger filled reaction to how Avery and Malfoy had treated her on the evening of her birthday. Black hadn't even been able to say the word 'mudblood', stumbling over it awkwardly in a way that reminded her just a bit of Ron, when he had been forced to explain the meaning of the term to her and Harry at the beginning of their second year. It seemed clear to Hermione now that if Black was prejudiced toward anyone, it was Slytherins.

Hermione thought once again of their shared detention, an event on which her mind had lingered all too frequently these past weeks. Whatever her mess of feelings concerning Black may have been, it had been impossible for her heart not to go out to him the minute she'd seen that scar on his wrist. The defensive anger with which he'd first reacted to her involuntary infringement on his privacy hadn't succeeded in deterring her from her sympathy. It had been a understandable, and Hermione didn't blame Black for it being his immediate, instinctual response. He'd softened slowly as she'd told him about her own scar, and more still when she'd shown it to him. Hermione still couldn't believe she had done that. But she didn't regret it. Not when Black had gone on to stare at her scar with such reverence, and to touch it so tenderly in a way that still had the ability to steal her breath when she thought about it all these weeks later.

He'd been captivated by her. As ridiculous as that sounded, Hermione really didn't think there was a better word to describe the way Black had reacted toward her once she'd revealed her scar to him. No one had ever looked at her that way before, with such intense fascination. Well, that wasn't quite true. She'd encountered more than one hair dresser who hadn't seemed to be able to figure out quite what to make of her hair, but that was another matter entirely. Black had obviously been intrigued by her scar in a good way. Hermione hesitated to even think it, but it was almost as if he had thought it was beautiful. It had been novel for her to be looked at in such a way, and especially by a boy. Especially by Black. Hermione was quite sure that no one besides her parents had ever looked at her before and thought that any physical aspect of her was beautiful, much less the remnants of a grievous injury. She supposed that her scar, however self-conscious she understandably was about it, wasn't entirely aesthetically horrifying. In any case, Black certainly didn't seem to think it was so hideous. The way he had stroked it….Hermione shivered at the memory of it.

She'd felt almost cherished under his touch, a thought which was no less authentic for the fact that it was also excruciatingly embarrassing to think at all. Hermione hated that her inner monologue currently sounded like something out of a horrifically cliché romance novel, but she couldn't seem to help herself in her mental descriptions. And besides, what had happened between her and Black hadn't been romantic anyway, just intensely intimate. Whatever people like Lavender and Parvati may have thought, there _were_ types of intimacy that were neither romantic or sexual. Her experience with Black had been undeniably intimate, yes, but it had also been the absolute furthest thing from romantic.

For one thing, Hermione reasoned, it had been far too melancholic and emotionally disturbing an exchange to qualify for the label of 'romantic'. It had been a painful thing for her to see Black's scar and to realize just what it meant, and she knew it couldn't have been easy for Black either. It had been difficult for Hermione to show him her own scar as well, though surprisingly less so than she would have imagined. In the aftermath of their revelations, her and Black had simply sought to comfort each other in what was perhaps the most basic and instinctual of ways; through touch. Hermione bit her lip. She got slightly emotional just thinking of it.

Nevertheless, she typically chose to dwell on that portion of the evening, rather than the humiliating part of it where Black had accidently touched her breast. It shouldn't have been a big deal, really. It wasn't as if he had done it on purpose, and Hermione doubted that Black had been able to feel too much of anything before she'd jerked away from him in shock and embarrassment. But he'd surely been able to feel at least something. Hermione squirmed, her cheeks heating up at the uncomfortable memory of it. Thank Circe she'd been wearing a bra. Not that she typically made a habit of forgoing one, but every once in a while she left it off. They could be so uncomfortable! Especially the lace ones, even if they were the prettiest. Not that her bra had done anything to shield the topmost portion of her breast from Black's wandering hand, so Hermione supposed she didn't have much of a reason to be overly grateful for the garment after all.

It had been such a brief moment though, when his hand had brushed against her. Maybe Black barely even remembered it. Hermione could only hope. Or maybe, she thought ruefully, Dorcas was right and Black had spent the last few weeks staring at the outline of her breasts beneath her sweater, rather than where he knew her scar to be, as Hermione had naively chosen to assume. Godric, she needed to think of something else. If she had to think about Black, her time could be much better spent focusing on all of the things which so confused her about him, rather than what he potentially thought of her breasts. Instead of dwelling miserably on that, Hermione decided resolutely to redirect her current attention onto all the aspects of Black that she had trouble reconciling with his status as a future murderer. At least she might get somewhere with that line of thought, rather than just stewing unproductively in the throes of mortification.

For one thing, Black's relationship with his fellow Marauders was something that had started to give Hermione pause whenever she thought of what she knew of his future crimes. She was especially troubled by the obviously close bonds he shared with James and Remus. The way Black was with them reminded her of Harry, in a sense, and how he'd latched so fiercely onto her and Ron during their first year at Hogwarts. They'd all latched onto each other, of course, but Ron and Hermione had had the benefit of having loving families they were able to return to. Hermione shot a wistful look at Lily. Harry had never had that luxury, and so he'd made her and Ron his family. Black, it seemed to Hermione, had done similarly with the Marauders. Seeing how he was with his friends, Hermione simply couldn't imagine Black betraying them for anything, much less for the values held by his family, which he'd already so roundly rejected at great consequence to himself. She thought again of Black's scar.

Someone in his family, most likely one or both of his parents, was hurting him physically. No one else could have given him a curse scar like that. That hadn't been from any silly, little duel he'd gotten into at Hogwarts. Hermione had been horrified at the sight of it; horrified at the implications of it. Her first instinct had been to comfort him, and so she had tried to do so in the only way which had occurred to her at the time. But later that night, Hermione had lain awake in bed, wracked with a discomfiting sense of helplessness and guilt over what she should do about Black. She had contemplated going to Professor McGonagall, but had ultimately decided against it. The Blacks were an old and powerful family, not unlike the Malfoys, and although Professor McGonagall was a very formidable woman, Hermione doubted there was anything her Head of House could actually do. Not without making things considerably worse. Not to mention, Hermione was sure Black would be positively livid with her if she told anyone about what she had seen.

Something else had occurred to her in bed that night too. Something that had been niggling at her brain ever since she'd first learned that Sirius had been convicted without a trial. What _about_ the influence of the Blacks? All of the old, pureblood families were influential within the ministry, and the more money the family had, the more influential they typically were. And the Blacks had _a lot_ of money. So given the pull they'd held within the ministry at the time of Sirius' conviction, how was it possible that the Blacks hadn't used any of that influence to ensure a trial for the sole male heir of their house? Regulus had died near the end of the war in service to You Know Who, Hermione knew, leaving Sirius the only remaining male Black of his generation. Assumedly, if he'd been serving a cause they supported, namely that of the Dark Lord, Sirius would have reconciled with his parents. And that being the case, it simply didn't make any sense to Hermione that his considerably powerful family hadn't worked to at least get him a trial.

Oh, how she wished she had access to the records, or that she'd at least bothered to dig them up back in 1993 when they'd existed. Hermione had taken note of the lack of trial at the time, but though it had bothered her, she'd had considerably more important things to worry about just then, such as the wellbeing of her best friend, whom Sirius Black was reportedly after. She hadn't been unduly concerned with any possible miscarriages of justice related to Black. Not back then anyway. The Malfoys, she knew, had exercised their own considerable influence in the aftermath of the war to ensure that Lucius Malfoy got off with barely a slap on the wrist, cleared of all charges using the defense of having supposedly been under the Imperious curse. But the Blacks hadn't even gotten Sirius a trial. And how could that be? Both of Sirius' parents had still been alive when he'd first been imprisoned. Hermione was sure she had read that somewhere. And yet they hadn't done a thing to fight the charges against their only remaining son. Hermione didn't know how to account for that.

Her eyes found Black out on the pitch once more. She had so many questions now. Unfortunately, it seemed that a great deal of them were destined to remain unanswered. Well, Hermione told herself, maybe that wasn't precisely true. Sometimes her research capabilities had a way of surprising even her. Perhaps she ought to do a little digging.

* * *

Hermione turned first, as was her wont in such situations, to the Hogwart's library. Historically, the library had served her well as both a refuge and a bountiful font of information. She only hoped that that would hold true in this case. Of course, never before in her previous research pursuits had Hermione ever been forced to contend with the distinct disadvantage that was researching something which had not yet taken place. So far it was proving to be a somewhat daunting, albeit fascinating, task.

Hermione had learned that the last person to be convicted without trial in Wizarding Britain, as of 1973, had been a Mr. Spartacus Flambeau, in 1947. The gentleman had committed as series of arsons against a string of various wizarding families in East Yorkshire. His targets had been random, seemingly holding nothing in common besides magical ability, and his motive undiscernible. Hermione was somewhat disappointed to discover that the only reason Mr. Flambeau had been imprisoned without a trail was that he had been judged unfit to stand for one on grounds of apparent insanity. Sirius, as far as the legend went anyway, was said to have been found laughing hysterically among the bodies of his victims in the wake of his massacre when the aurors had arrived to apprehend him. This seemed to Hermione scant justification for declaring him insane and unfit to stand trial though, at least not without further investigation.

As far as she knew, Black had never been examined in any capacity by the Ministry, or anyone else, in a way which was meant to determine whether or not he was sane. All the papers in 1993 had certainly seemed to agree that Black was _currently_ insane, although that begged the question of how he had managed to escape Azkaban. His supposed maniacal laughter in the wake of his crime was also frequently brought up as evidence to support his alleged insanity, so Hermione supposed that there _was_ a general pubic consensus that Black was quite mad, and that he had been before his imprisonment, and not just as a result of having spent time in Azkaban.

But the Ministry had never formally released anything regarding the state of Black's sanity, much less presented his lack thereof as reason for his not receiving a trial. It seemed that the wizarding public, in both 1981 (the year of Black's imprisonment) and 1993 (the year of his escape from Azkaban), not to mention all the years in between in which Black had been held in the notorious wizarding prison, had been willing to accept Black's lack of trial quite easily. The Ministry had never had to justify it, because no one had seen it as a problem. Hermione found this deeply disturbing. She understood the instinctual recoiling from, and lack of sympathy for, someone who had been accused of perpetrating such a heinous action as Black had, but in her view that still didn't mean that you could just throw the processes of justice out the window.

It remained inconceivable to her that Black's parents, if he had indeed been working for You Know Who, something Walburga and Orion Black would have lauded, had done nothing to secure a trial for him. She was aware that Sirius had been disowned by them, sometime in his later years at Hogwarts or in the immediate aftermath of his graduation, if Hermione remembered correctly. But if Sirius had reconciled to the cause of his parents, to such a degree that he had gone so far as to become a Death Eater working directly for You Know Who, would they really have continued to spurn him? Hermione wasn't sure. Perhaps, she reasoned, the Blacks had used the disownment of their son as a cover to distance themselves from both him and the Dark Lord's cause. Had they elected not to campaign for a trial for Sirius because they'd hoped to avoid garnering charges of their own? Hermione just didn't think that quite fit.

For one thing, she thought she remembered reading that that Walburga and Orion Black had been present at the trial of their niece, Bellatrix. In order, she assumed, to express their defiant support of her. That seemed like a pretty blatant declaration of political allegiance on the part of the Blacks to Hermione. They clearly hadn't had any reservations about broadcasting their affiliation with known Death Eaters in Bellatrix's case, so why would they have in Sirius'? And while Walburga and Orion Black were undoubtedly both blood supremacists, she didn't recall that they'd ever been directly involved in the cause of You Know Who themselves. Only their sons had. So what possible charges could they have had to worry about? Hermione frowned. It was no use. Simply put, she was having a great deal of trouble parsing the post-war motivations of Sirius' parents. After a frustrating hour of concentrating on the matter, a time in which she achieved nothing more than a headache, Hermione ultimately decided that it was no using thinking in circles about the topic any longer. For the moment, she would opt to shelve that particular quandary for possible reexamination on another day.

Instead, she turned her attention to additional incidences of conviction without trial in Wizarding Britain. Post 18th century, they seemed to occur largely in and around times of war when the Ministry had been either destabilized or infiltrated by hostile forces . During the heyday of the war with Grindlewald, which had been at it's peak in the 1930's and 1940's, running somewhat concurrently with the Muggle 2nd World War, the Ministry had gone so far as to actually formally suspend normal judicial process for a time. It was all very interesting, and Hermione made mental note that looking at the intersections between the Wizarding war with Gellert Grindlewald and the Muggle 2nd World War would make a fascinating Muggle Studies paper. Not that she was taking Muggle Studies any longer, having decided to drop it upon her arrival in the 1970's, but that didn't mean she couldn't do the project for fun. If, that is, Hermione thought wryly, she could ever manage to find the time.

In at least one way, though, the timing of Sirius' lack of trial made sense. He had been captured in the chaotic aftermath of the Dark Lord's fall. But what didn't make sense was that other people had been as well, and they had all received trials, insofar as Hermione knew. She couldn't be completely sure of that fact, but many of the trials of high ranking Death Eaters had been very well publicized, and had already made their way into modern magical texts by the time she had arrived at Hogwarts. Hermione was an incredibly well read girl. She positively devoured books, and had started consuming as many magical texts as possible the moment she'd found out she was a witch. Starting, of course, with _'Hogwarts: A History'_. And yet she couldn't recall any other case where someone had been imprisoned without trial in the wake of the war with You Know Who. Hermione wasn't so arrogant as to assume that she knew everything about the Wizarding world after having spent just a little over two years in it, but she did suspect that if imprisonment without trial were that common a thing ,she would have run across at least a few modern indicines of it in her extensive reading. If it _had_ happened to anyone other than Black,it would have to have been very rare, Hermione determined. That, at least, she felt she could say decisively.

There was, of course, the nasty business that had gone on with Hagrid her second year when the Chamber of Secrets had been re-opened. With the ongoing student attacks, Minister Fudge had eventually bowed to public pressure, and the wishes of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and had had Hagrid imprisoned based on the belief that he had been the one to previously open the Chamber when he was a child. At the time her now guardian had been taken to Azkaban, Hermione had still been lying petrified in the Hospital Wing unable to move or function, but she had heard all about the event later from Harry and Ron. And although it was horrific to her that Hagrid had been taken to the notoriously awful wizarding prison in the first place, especially with the revelation at the beginning of her original third year of just how truly horrible the dementors that guarded it were, it didn't seem _entirely_ unusual to her.

Hermione hated to agree with Minister Fudge, whom she had judged to be a most odious and ingratiating little man, about anything, but she could at least somewhat understand the position he had been in. Hagrid had previously been determined to have opened the Chamber of Secrets, and had been arrested and held on suspicion of doing so again. And when sufficient proof had arisen which made his innocence clear, he had been released. In the Muggle judicial system there were typically limits for how long you could hold someone without charging them, and Hermione was unsure what, if anything, Hagrid had actually been charged with her second year. That wasn't the kind of detailed information Harry or Ron typically honed in on, and Hermione had been considerably incapacitated at the time, what with being petrified, and so hadn't been able to find out herself. By the time she had been woken up it was all over, and she was being relayed the unbelievable story via her exhausted best friends in a mess of regurgitated confusion.

Actually though, what troubled her far more than what had happened to Hagrid her second year was what had happened to him as a child in his own third year, when the Chamber of Secrets had originally been opened. As far as she knew, the 13 year old half giant _hadn't_ had a trial, not officially. The determinacy of his guilt and the meting out of his punishment, namely his expulsion from Hogwarts and the snapping of his wand, had all seemed to have gone through the school, not the Ministry. Hermione bit her lip. It all seemed just a little fishy to her. She'd have to try and find a way to ask Hagrid about it the next time she went down for tea. The Wizarding judicial system clearly differed in many significant ways from the Muggle one with which Hermione had grown up, that much she could see.

The muggleborn witch sighed exhaustively, pushing _'A Legal History of Wizarding Britain: 20_ _th_ _Century Edition'_ away from her. She'd done enough non-school related work for one day. Hermione could admit that Black's case had become something of an obsession for her, but that didn't mean that she could devote all her time to it exclusively. She had a Herbology essay that needed attention, and a bit of Charms to do after that. Perhaps, Hermione thought, she ought to relocate to the Gryffindor common room. She could use a coffee, and Madam Pince was a stickler about beverages in the library.

* * *

 _AN: So, I am not sure if JK mentions anyone else being locked up without trial in cannon (I didn't bother to look it up as finding out she did would spoil my plan somewhat), but I thought it would be an interesting thing for Hermione to latch on to. And I mean, even Buckbeak got a trial, even if it was a sham. I would have mentioned that, but don't think Buckbeak's trial had been set yet when Hermione traveled back. So the takeaway from this author's note should be that I'm too lazy to look shit up lol. Anyway, let me know what you think! As always, reviews are love._

 _ETA: It was brought to my attention by a reviewer that 3rd year Hermione might not have known so much about Sirius' family history. I totally get that, but to me it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that Hermione would have researched everything she could about Sirius and the Black's the minute he escaped from Azkaban, especially after finding out he was after Harry. It seems to me like an impulse she'd plausibly have :) That said, it also absolutely serves the purposes of my story so I'm choosing to go with it for the sake of that. I wanted Hermione to have sincerely compelling reasons to doubt Sirius's guilt and I thought this would be an interesting way to go about that. Cheers y'all!_


	15. Discussions of Dentistry

**IMPORTANT AN** **:** _Hi y'all! I just wanted to let you guys know that_ _ **I added like, 3 paragraphs to my last chapter**_ _dealing with Hagrid being taken to Azkaban Hermione's 2_ _nd_ _year. I was gonna address those circumstances a bit later, but a reviewer brought to my attention that he WAS basically convicted without trial, or at least imprisoned without one, so I thought I better address it at least a bit in my last chap. This is why I need a beta y'all! Bless you reviewers, seriously! Anyway though, the_ _ **new stuff is at the very end of the last chapter (14), the last 4 paragraphs**_ _, so pop back and read it quick!_

 _Also_ _ **160 REVIEWS FOR A STORY THAT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE SMUT YET I LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH THANK YOU! AND THE 175 PLUS FAVORITES, AND 300 PLUS FOLLOWS! YOU GUYS GIVE ME ALL THE LIFE! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!**_

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Chapter 15: Discussions of Dentistry in Mixed Company

"Tell me again why you're making us paint our nails?" Hermione asked, addressing Dorcas but neglecting to look at her, concentrated as she was on swiping a coat of oxblood nail varnish across the small nail of her little finger.

"It's our first Hogsmeade weekend _ever_ Hermione, we have to look fabulous!" Dorcas explained, twisting the cap onto her bottle of iridescent purple polish, before setting it down so she could select an additional bottle of metallic silver. More ambitious than either Hermione or Lily, Dorcas had chosen to use two alternating colors on her nails rather than just one single shade of varnish.

"We have to dazzle!" the blonde exclaimed, waving her right hand expressively, her wet nails flashing as they caught the light of the common room. Lily and Hermione shared an amused look which went unnoticed by Dorcas, inordinately caught up in the excitement of her manicure as she was.

"And who, exactly, are we supposed to be dazzling?" Lily wanted to know. The red head was in the process of painting her own nails, having selected a shade mossy green that complimented her eyes.

Dorcas had complained (loudly) that both Hermione and Lily had chosen frightfully boring colors with which to adorn their nails ("Those are practically _neutrals_ ," she had said, shaking her head disdainfully when they'd selected their varnishes) but in the end had just been pleased that she'd managed to get two of her three dormmates to take a break from studying in order to paint their nails at all.

Personally, Hermione thought that oxblood red was a gorgeously vibrant color. It was certainly a good deal more muted than iridescent purple, but that suited her just fine. No matter how much Dorcas had sought to turn her into one, Hermione simply wasn't a neon nail varnish kind of witch.

"We will be dazzling the entire populace of Hogsmeade, not to mention all of our fellow Hogwarts classmates who happen to be in the village," Dorcas was saying, in typical dramatic fashion.

Lily looked highly skeptical. "And you really think all of these people are going to be looking at our _nails_?" she asked doubtfully.

"Well, I don't know about the two of you, but they'll certainly be looking at mine," Dorcas said confidently, having begun to apply the metallic varnish to her every other nail.

Hermione laughed, having no doubt that a good deal of people would notice Dorcas' nails. She was making them rather impossible to ignore. Hermione was confident, though, that her and Lily's considerably more subtle styles also looked good. She wished Mary had come down with them as well, wondering what shade the quiet girl would have chosen for her own nails. Surely nothing of the neon variety, Hermione assumed.

More and more recently, Mary had been separating herself from the rest of the third year Gryffindor girls. Truthfully, Hermione wasn't all that surprised that she'd declined to join them today. Lately Mary had taken to shutting herself up in the dorm to study rather than doing so with the rest of them in either the library or the common room, and while she still sat with them at meal times and in class, she was quieter than ever. Lily, Hermione and Dorcas all made efforts to include her in their conversations, but they very rarely managed to succeed in drawing her into participating in one very much. For her part, Hermione continued to be troubled by the nagging suspicion that Mary's reluctance to spend time with them all had something to do with her. She couldn't help but wonder if, were it not for her presence here in the 1970's, Mary would have joined Dorcas and Lily in the common room. But Hermione _was_ here, painting her nails happily alongside her new dormmates, while Mary, quite conspicuously, was not.

Despite the fact that Dorcas had spent a good five minutes aggressively shaking bottles of nail varnish in the brunettes face in an effort to get her to join them in the common room for manicures, Mary had resisted all of the blondes cajoling pleas. Hermione had been vaguely impressed, but also disquieted, by her usually diffident dormmates ability to refuse Dorcas' persistent attempts at persuasion. Their mutual friend could make herself very insistent when she wanted to. Mary had begged off though, insisting that she needed to study and explaining that she'd rather do so alone for the benefit of her concentration. She hadn't seemed upset at Dorcas' pushiness, but she had been adamant in her refusal to join the rest of them in the common room. After they'd left the dorm, Dorcas had groused that Mary was no fun lately and never wanted to do anything. Hermione had shifted uncomfortably at her statement. The displaced, muggle born witch was still unsure what to do about the situation though, and so had tried to push it from her mind.

She'd been mostly successful thus far, Hermione thought, capping her bottle of oxblood nail varnish and blowing lightly on her still wet nails. She could have just done a quick dry charm, but sometimes she was rather fond of doing things the muggle way, even if it was slower. Lily and Dorcas had finished with their manicures as well, and all three girls were currently admiring each other's work while they waited for their nails to dry. They were interrupted from this pleasant activity by the sudden arrival of James Potter and Sirius Black as they tumbled chaotically through the portrait hole in an obnoxious clump.

"Why does it smell like death in here?" James Potter wailed almost immediately upon their entrance, coughing and sputtering in a ridiculously overblown manner as he and Sirius made their way across the common room and towards the entrance to the boys' dormitory. Unfortunately, the route of the two most conspicuous Marauders took them right past where Hermione, Lily and Dorcas happened to be sitting. If their wrinkled noses were anything to go by, Black and Potter seemed to be zeroing in on the distinct scent of magical nail varnish, which was even stronger than that of the muggle kind, though nothing intolerable as far as Hermione was concerned.

Lily was less than pleased with this development, and certainly did not appear to be interested in listening to any commentary Black or Potter might have had to offer about her manicure. Or anything else, for that matter. The red-head rolled her eyes emphatically in response to James' complaint about the smell, going on to pin him and Black with one her considerably disdainful stares. Hermione was faintly surprised that her friend didn't fold her arms judgmentally across her chest as well; it certainly would have been fitting. Frankly, she suspected the only reason Lily hadn't done so was because her manicure was probably still wet and she didn't want to ruin her nails.

"Did you ever consider, Potter, that the rank smell in here might have something do with the arrival of you lot?" Lily asked faux sweetly, nodding at him and Black.

James, rather than being offended by this statement of Lily's, appeared unbothered and cocky as ever. He reached up to run a hand through his already messy hair, puffing up his chest slightly at the same time.

"We just came from quidditch practice, Evans," he explained needlessly. Given that him and Black were wearing their quidditch uniforms and pads, not to mention the fact that both of them were soaked in sweat, it was quite evident where they had come from.

"We smell manly," James said pompously, causing Lily to scoff loudly, Sirius to roll his eyes in exasperation, and for Hermione and Dorcas to exchange an amused look before promptly bursting into giggles.

Lily stared at James incredulously. "You smell revolting," she informed him. Hermione and Dorcas laughed harder.

"She's not wrong, mate," Sirius cut in, slapping James companionably on the shoulder to soften the blow of his words. "We both need showers."

"Yeah, alright," James allowed grudgingly. "But I still think we smell manly. Sweat is manly!"

Lily rolled her eyes at him. "Sweat is a natural biological function, Potter, and it's certainly not specific to the male sex, but tell yourself whatever you like."

"Oi!" James protested, looking slightly wounded. Before he could say anything more though, Sirius swooped in and began steering him away from the girls and towards the staircase leading up to the boys' dormitory, tossing a halfhearted wave for Hermione, Lily and Dorcas over his shoulder as he lead James away from them.

"Merlin, mate," Hermione could hear Black muttering as he and Potter trekked up the stairs. "You say the stupidest shite around her, I don't know what the fuck happens to your brain."

"Well that was…" Dorcas began once they boys were fully out of sight and earshot.

"Profoundly irritating?" Lily finished for her, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Dorcas shrugged. "I was going to say amusing," she said. "But I suppose they didn't bother complimenting our nails, so maybe you're right, Lils."

The red head huffed. "I just hope we don't run into them in Hogsmeade," she said, and Hermione nodded absently in agreement, mildly surprised that she couldn't seem to find it within herself to get nearly as worked up about the matter as Lily.

"They're liable to spoil the whole thing," the red head finished bitterly. Hermione hoped she was wrong.

* * *

"Did you see Evans' nails though?" James demanded once he and Sirius had entered the third year boys' dorm and begun stripping off their admittedly rank quidditch kits.

"Nice color, wasn't it?" he nodded decisively to himself before Sirius had time to inform him he hadn't so much as glanced at Evans' nails, much less noticed what color they were.

"Looked real good with her eyes," James was saying, chucking his sweat soaked shirt uncaringly on the floor near his bed. Actually the shirt had landed more near Peter's bed then James', but James didn't seem to notice. Probably because, as unbelievable as it was to Sirius, he was still going on about Evans' nails.

"When she got shirty with us, you could really tell how much the green brought out her eyes, 'cos she started waving her hands all up around her face," James relayed wistfully, the look in his own eyes frighteningly close to misty. Sirius was so unnerved by this that he was forced to theatrically pretend to vomit for several minutes.

"You really are fucking mental," he said to James when he had finished, making no mention of the fact that while he hadn't noticed Evans' nails, he _had_ noticed Granger's. They'd been a deep, blood red, and Sirius' eye had been unaccountably drawn to them.

* * *

"Moony, mate, I know you're a daft, swotty, bugger who loves old books, but you really don't need to impose your weird obsessions on the rest of us," Sirius protested, perturbed and somewhat annoyed by the fact that Remus had seen fit to drag him out of Zonko's joke shop without warning.

His friend had provided no explanation for this forcible extraction, and was now hauling Sirius toward a dusty, old place that appeared to sell books, a much less exciting category of merchandise, in Sirius' opinion, than that which Zonko's offered. He hadn't been nearly finished at the joke shop. For Godric's sake, he'd only had time to spend 11 galleons, and as far as Sirius was concerned, that wasn't nearly enough. Wasting his parents' money on prank items they would have deemed both stupid and pointless, and which he was mainly planning to use on Slytherin's, was something he considered to be a highly enjoyable activity. One which Remus had rudely and prematurely torn him away from. And now the werewolf was ignoring him, having pointedly not responded to Sirius' quip about him being a swotty, bugger, which was hardly an insult anyway because everyone, including Remus, knew that it was true.

"Seriously, Moony, what the fuck?" Sirius demanded as they entered the bookshop, a little bell tinkling overhead to announce their arrival. His exclamation, which had been quite loud, drew the notice of the shop's proprietor, and she gave him a nasty look which strongly suggested that, although he'd only just arrived, she was already considering kicking him out of her establishment and banning him from the premises for good measure. In a wise move, Remus steered him away from the woman into a quiet, secluded alcove of books, most of which seemed to deal with the art of tea leaf reading. Sirius was surprised there were so many books devoted to the topic. In his experience with reading tea leaves, he had found that it was less of an 'art' and more a matter of just making shit up. At least that's what he, James, and Pete always did. Moony had declined to take divination, dismissing it as a bunch of bunk and a soft option to boot, which is exactly why the other three Marauders had signed up for it.

"I wanted to talk to you," Remus said, once he had finished making sure they were safely out of sight of the owner.

"Alone. In a bookshop," Sirius said flatly.

"Away from James and Peter," Remus clarified, piquing Sirius' interest.

"Ooh, is this about a prank then?" he wondered. "It is, isn't it," Sirius enthused, leaning forward eagerly. "I commend you for your initiative, Rem. What are you planning?"

Remus made a somewhat impatient noise in the back of his throat. "It's not about a prank, Sirius."

Sirius deflated abruptly, shoving his hands in the pockets of his muggle style jeans and letting himself fall back heavily against a bookshelf. "What then?"

"It's about Hermione," Remus said.

Sirius cocked his head with warry interest. "Granger? What about her?"

"Well, for starters, I'm quite curious to know whether or not you've been staring at her breasts or her scar."

"Er, both," Sirius said without thinking, caught off guard, which had surely been Moony's intention. To shock him into honesty. Remus could be quite the clever little fucker when he wanted to be, a fact Sirius was eternally grateful for when it was saving his arse, but which was deeply irritating under the current circumstances.

"Wait," he started again, eyes narrowing as a disturbing new thought occurred to him. "How do you know about her scar? You've not seen it, have you?" he demanded, that strange possessiveness over Granger's scar flaring up in him once more.

Remus, picking up on Sirius' sudden, unexpected hostility, held his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. "No," he assured him. "I haven't seen it. I just happened to…inadvertently overhear Hermione talking about it to Lily and Dorcas."

"Inadvertently overhear, huh?" Sirius asked wryly, quirking a challenging eyebrow at the werewolf.

Remus colored slightly. "It wasn't on purpose," he said defensively. "And that's beside the point anyway—"

"What _is_ your point, Moony?" Sirius interrupted, his patience with the conversation rapidly disintegrating. It was their first Hogsmeade weekend, and he had no desire to spend any portion of it being self-righteously interrogated by Remus, which he had a feeling was exactly where this all was leading.

Remus gave a minute sigh, likely in response to Sirius' obvious attitude, but plowed on nonetheless. "What happened during your detention with Hermione?"

"I thought you already heard all about it from her," Sirius said childishly.

Remus chose to ignore his tone. "I know you saw her scar," he said measuredly. "And I know that not many people have seen it. Lily knew about it, but Dorcas didn't. She thought you were staring at Hermione's chest. Truth be told, Meadows seemed quite disappointed when Hermione assured her that wasn't the case."

Sirius snorted. Little did Meadows and Granger know. Not that he'd _just_ been staring at Granger's breasts. He was equally, if not more, captivated by her scar. He'd got a hell of a better look at that then he had her breasts. Sirius couldn't deny that his eyes were often drawn to Granger's chest now, though, driven by thoughts of both her scar and her breasts. And the fact was that while you couldn't see the outline of Granger's scar beneath her sweater, you could usually get a good idea of the shape of her breasts. In Sirius' perverse defense, he stared at the breasts of a lot of girls, so it wasn't as though he was weirdly obsessed with Granger's in particular. But he may have been a bit obsessed with her scar.

Remus was staring at him expectantly, but Sirius sure as shit wasn't to about to admit just what it was of Granger's that he'd been spending so much time staring at lately, even if the werewolf likely did already know. Moony was a perceptive bastard, but he usually left Sirius alone about things he clearly didn't want to talk about. So why was he pushing this? To be fair, he'd clearly put a good bit of what had happened together weeks ago and had left it till now. But it was just like Moony to spend a ridiculous amount of time ruminating on something and making sure he got his head clear around it before deciding to take the next step. The next step in this case being confronting Sirius about it. Remus certainly did like his preparations.

"Yeah, I saw her scar," Sirius acknowledged, conceding something Remus obviously already knew.

"And you don't want anyone else to see it. Or at least me."

Sirius didn't bother to refute this. "It's nothing personal on you, mate, but yeah."

"Why though?" Remus asked, baffled.

Sirius raised a hand to his hair, running his fingers through the black strands agitatedly. "Look, Moony, I don't know," he said frustratedly. Remus leveled him with a doubtful stare. "It was just, personal, alright, when she showed it to me."

Remus' eyes widened. "She actually showed it to you? Voluntarily, I mean? You didn't just happen to accidently see it?"

Sirius nodded in confirmation, unreasonably smug at having managed to surprise his far too insightful friend for once . And possibly (definitely) also about the fact that Granger had _chosen_ to show him her scar of her own volition.

"Huh," Remus said faintly. "I'm surprised. She was really cagey about it with Lily and Dorcas. She didn't even show Dorcas, just told her about it."

The smug feeling in Sirius' chest expanded further. "Well she wouldn't've, would she? Not if she was in public. I doubt Granger was about to flash the lot of you," he pointed out practically.

Remus appeared to choke on his own spit. "Hermione _flashed_ you?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "No, you git," he said disdainfully. "Her scar is kind of in the middle of her chest though," he gestured inarticulately at his own body, indicating an area between his pectorals. "Sort of here. She did have to, er, pull down her sweater quite a bit to show me," he finished uncomfortably, staring down at his shoes. They were muggle Chuck Taylors, and they were quite scuffed. His parents would have been horrified on multiple levels.

"Did you _see_ anything?" Remus asked, his voice oddly squeaky.

"Well, yeah, her s _car_ ," Sirius verified. "I didn't really, er, see anything...else," he trailed off awkwardly, having been purposefully vague. He may not have seen anything more of Granger's, but he'd sure as hell felt something more. Not that he had any plans to enlighten Remus about that. His werewolf friend already had more than enough ammunition to take the mickey out on him over this and Sirius wasn't about to provide him with any more. Besides, he told himself, it was none of Remus' business.

"Good," Remus breathed, and Sirius wasn't sure whether or not be offended by the distinct tone of relief in his friend's exclamation. What possible reason did Moony have to care about Granger's…virtue, or whatever? Did _he_ want to look at her breasts?

Sirius glared at him. "Is there a reason I shouldn't have seen Granger's breasts?" he challenged hotly.

"You mean besides the obvious one that she wouldn't want to show them to you?"

Sirius slumped back against the bookshelf, unable to counter that undeniable point. "Well, she showed me her scar," he muttered petulantly.

"Yes," Remus acknowledged. He paused, thinking. Sirius remained silent as well, stewing in his own thoughts. "Why did she show you her scar, Sirius?" the werewolf probed gently after a minute, bringing the mutual moment of silence between the two boys to a close.

Sirius flexed his wrist, knowing that Moony's sharp eyes would catch the movement. That scar was considerably faded now, almost gone, but he was still hiding what was left of it with a well-placed glamour. "She saw something of mine," he said deliberately, trusting that Remus would get his meaning.

Remus nodded. "I thought as much," he said slowly. Sirius shrugged.

"Are you…okay?" Remus asked hesitantly when it became clear that Sirius wasn't going to say anything more in response.

Sirius shrugged again, not looking at him, still concentrated on his shoes. "Fine, Moony," he said softly. "I was mad, at first. Or upset, I guess. But then she…," he trailed off again, not really knowing how to explain what had gone on between him and Granger, and unsure if he wanted to, even to Remus. Strike that, Sirius knew he didn't want to explain. At least not fully. What had happened with Granger felt like a private moment, something to be kept just between the two of them. Besides, he didn't even know how to explain it fully to himself just yet, much less adequately convey his emotions about what had happened to Remus.

"It was fine," Sirius said eventually, nodding. "Yeah, It was fine. Good, even," he volunteered, and decided that that was about as specific as he was willing to get on the matter.

"Alright," Remus accepted quietly, his eyes serious and assessing.

Sirius nodded once more, and then propelled himself up from the bookshelf, eager to break the mood. "Now, do we really have to keep talking about this like a bunch of girls?" he asked.

Remus laughed. "Alright, Sirius, you win. Enough is enough. Sorry to have subjected you to such a strenuous conversation this early in the morning."

Sirius gave him a friendly shove. "Quite alright, Moony, quite alright," he said lightly. "Let's head back to Zonko's, shall we? See if we can find James and Peter."

* * *

The swell of their fellow Hogwart's students filling up The Three Broomsticks was almost overwhelming, and Hermione found she could barely even move from the crush of it. Luckily, Dorcas had latched onto her hand, Hermione had in turn latched quickly onto Lily's, and was dragging her friends toward what appeared to be the sole free booth in the place. Said booth remained miraculously empty long enough for Dorcas to slam her clutch of shopping bags on top of its table, and thereby succeed in claiming it for her Hermione and Lily. A group of older Ravenclaw girls whom Hermione vaguely recognized were now giving them dirty looks, looking distinctly put out at the sudden dearth of available seating options. They'd clearly been eyeing the booth the Gryffindor girls now occupied, but had lacked the speed and coordination to get to it before a tenacious Dorcas. Picking up on the waves of hostility now emanating towards them, the blonde turned to peek over her shoulder at the Ravenclaws, shooting them a somewhat smug smile and waggling her fingers cheerfully at them.

"Sometimes," Lily said when Dorcas had turned to face them once more, the red head's voice fondly exasperated, "you are so unnecessarily bitchy."

Dorcas laughed delightedly. "That's why I have such fun," she said with an exaggerated wink. "And don't pretend you don't enjoy it as well, Lils, you've positively made a sport out of being unnecessarily bitchy to Potter."

Hermione snorted at the accuracy of this statement, as well as some of the instances it brought to mind. "She's not wrong, Lily," she said, shooting her friend a slightly apologetic smile for her fit of amusement.

Lily didn't seem overly put out though. "Well, I won't deny it," she allowed, a slightly devious smile overtaking her face, her green eyes glinting mischievously.

"You've eased up on Black a bit though, Hermione," Dorcas observed, turning her attention from Lily to the curly haired witch. "Toned it down to something approaching a sane level of hostility."

Hermione shrugged noncommittally, striving to appear casual and desperately wishing she had a drink to sip in order to help with the charade. Also, she was quite excited to try butterbeer for the first time. Unfortunately, the Three Broomsticks was currently an absolute zoo and their order had yet to even be taken.

"You have been significantly less twitchy around him," Lily put in, moving aside Hermione's Honeydukes bag of flossing string mints (" _That's_ what you're buying?" Dorcas had said judgmentally at the time, brandishing her own bag of more conventional sweets, most of them containing large quantities of chocolate, in Hermione's face as though to tempt her away from healthier alternatives) in an effort to make more room on the table for her elbows.

" _Significantly_ ," Dorcas agreed, folding her hands under her chin and letting her head loll to the side as she eyed Hermione speculatively. "You used to look as though you were going to be sick every time he came near you, but now you just roll your eyes a lot in his general direction and stare at him when you think no one's looking."

"Mind you, she's always stared at him," Lily interjected. Entirely unnecessarily, in Hermione's opinion.

"True," Dorcas acknowledged. "But it's with considerably lower levels of seething hatred now."

"Are you two quite finished?" Hermione asked, interrupting whatever Lily had been planning to say in response to Dorcas and arching an inquisitive, irritated eyebrow at her friends.

Lily, at least, had the grace to look somewhat abashed. "Sorry, Hermione, I know we promised we'd leave you alone about it, but it's just—"

"Weird," Dorcas cut in definitively. "The thing between you and Black is weird."

Hermione bristled. "There is no _'thing_ ' between me and Black!" she hissed. "Now, can we please change the subject? I have no desire to spend any more of this Hogsmeade trip talking, or even thinking, about Sirius Black! "

Dorcas, who was seated across the booth on the opposite side from Hermione and Lily, facing away from them, had been about to say something when her blue eyes widened considerably and she appeared to suddenly change tacks.

"Er, sorry, love, but that might be just a bit difficult," she said.

"And why is that?" Hermione asked stridently, her eyebrow now arched to a particularly dangerous degree.

"Because him and the rest of the Marauders are headed straight this way."

"What?!" Lily cried, spinning round in her chair and gaping in horrified disbelief at the specter that was Black, Potter and Lupin weaving steadily nearer to them, Pettigrew scrambling in their wake as he attempted to elbow his way through the thick, oppressive crowd of the pub. Peter appeared to be having much less success at the endeavor than his considerably taller friends. The nearer the four of them drew, the clearer it became that their destination was, indeed, Hermione, Lily and Dorcas's booth. Either that or they were planning to sit on the floor. Hermione eyed said floor contemplatively. While it was made up of a nice hardwood, the amount of mysterious, sticky substances which were glinting off its surface, likely the result of the hoard of clumsy Hogwart's students who had invaded the pub and were ill adept at properly minding their drinks, marked it as an ill-advised place for one to park their bum. Not that the Marauders were exactly strangers to indulging in ill-advised schemes, but it seemed that today they had their sights set on proper seating arrangements. Ones that just so happened to be located immediately adjacent to their female, Gryffindor year-mates. Judging by the terribly affronted look on Lily's face as James Potter came to a stop in front of her, Hermione thought that he, at least, might have done well to give the floor another look.

"Budge up there Evan's, come on," Potter implored her. " Nowhere else is free." He peered expectantly at her, flicking his hair out of his eyes with practiced casualness. Hermione was quite sure that he was under the mistaken impression that this bit with his hair was incredibly charming, but she knew for a fact that Lily found it exceedingly irritating, as she did most things about James.

"Do you really think—," Lily began angrily to Potter, her cheeks lit up with fiery bursts of red, a clear sign that she was gearing up to launch into a well and good rant, when she was cut off in this endeavor by the arrival of Sirius Black.

"Oi, we brought bribes," he said, depositing a truly ridiculous amount of what had to be butterbeer onto the table and promptly inserting himself into a seat next to Hermione without so much as a by your leave.

Hermione's mouth fell open in shocked dismay, distinctly displeased by this turn of events. "Excuse you!" she said hotly, elbowing Black in the side in an effort to edge out a little more space for herself. He grunted from the impact of the blow, shooting Hermione an annoyed glance, before obligingly moving slightly away from her. Hermione nodded in satisfaction. She would take her small victories where she could. At least Black was no longer pressed intimately up against her side, having relocated to a space slightly down the booth bench that put several happy inches between them.

"Relax, Granger, " Sirius said placatingly when he had settled once more. "Have a beer."

He shoved one of the brimming mugs in her direction, the frothy liquid sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the mug as it slid to a stop directly in front of Hermione. She leaned forward, sniffing hesitantly, and was inundated with a pleasant, buttery aroma that promptly set her mouth to watering. Butterbeer smelled just as delicious as it was rumored to taste. Hermione went to take a sip, pausing with the mug of butterbeer poised just before her lips.

"It's not actually alcoholic, is it?" she asked, determined to make sure.

Sirius snorted in amusement at her question, reaching forward to claim his own mug of butterbeer, his shoulder briefly brushing against Hermione's own as he did so. She wondered why she noticed so much. "No," Black confirmed. "Mores the pity. It's still good though. Go on, Granger, try it."

Hermione, who found that she resented being told what to do by Black even in such a trivial instance, took a small, exploratory sip of her butterbeer nonetheless. She let out an involuntary, audible noise of pure delight the moment the liquid hit her tongue. It was indeed quite delicious, addictingly so.

"Good, right?" Sirius asked, nudging her for some reason. Hermione scooted further away from him, but nodded reluctantly in agreement with his assessment.

Hermione was shocked to see that while she had been sampling butterbeer for the first time, James had somehow managed to seat himself next to Lily without sustaining any bodily injuries. Lily, though, was clearly unhappy about this, and sought to rectify her situation by tugging on the hand of an unsuspecting Remus, who was still in the process of figuring out his own seating arrangements, and forcibly yanking him down into the space between her and Potter. In the wake of the commotion, Lily took the opportunity to lean forward around a rather bemused looking Remus and smirk triumphantly at Potter.

All this jostling had the effect of once more forcing Sirius close against Hermione's side, which she was quite put out about, but which Black hardly seemed to notice or mind at all. The situation was only made worse by the late come arrival of Pettigrew, who proceeded to wedge himself into the last available spot in the booth next to Dorcas, hurriedly snatching up a mug of butterbeer for himself and spilling some on the blonde witch in the process. Dorcas wrinkled her nose, exchanging an irritated glance with Hermione in which they silently commiserated over the unhappy accident of their respective seating arrangements. Hermione had to admit that, loathe as she was to be sandwiched in next to Black, she didn't much envy Dorcas either. At least Black had yet to spill beer on her.

"Where's Mary?" Remus asked once everyone had settled and he and James had secured butterbeers of their own. "I'm surprised she's not with you."

"She was, earlier," Lily explained, and indeed, Mary had been with them earlier. The Gryffindor girls had spent a highly enjoyable morning exploring the village of Hogsmeade. Neither Hermione nor Lily had been before, and Dorcas and Mary had only ever visited briefly with their families, so it was a relatively novel experience for all four of them. Mary had been typically quiet, but perhaps more present than she had been lately. All and all, it had been a lovely time, marred for Hermione only by uncomfortable pang in the back of her mind that insisted she should have been experiencing this with Harry and Ron. She was sure it would have been an altogether different excursion had she been with her boys rather than Lily, Dorcas and Mary.

The girls hadn't even gone to Zonko's, a joke shop which Hermione was sure Ron would have insisted on spending an inordinate amount of time in, and which Harry likely would have enjoyed as well. Lily, on the other hand, had been quite keen to avoid the place, largely on the basis that there was a very likely possibility the Marauders were probably inside. Eyeing the multiple Zonko's bags now spread out across their table, Hermione suspected this intuition of Lily's had been quite correct. Hermione had been a bit surprised that Dorcas hadn't insisted on going in to Zonko's, but the blonde had assured them that she hardly needed the assistance of overpriced, joke props when it came to the business of causing havoc all over Hogwarts, and that she much preferred to rely on methods of mental manipulation anyway. Upon this somewhat disturbing revelation, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if, had it not been for the current political climate of the 1970's and Dorcas's complete and utter lack of subtlety, her blonde friend might have been a Slytherin.

Having passed over Zonko's, the girls had instead spent a good deal of time exploring Hogsmeade's book shop, which was smaller but no less exciting than Diagon Alley's Flourish and Blotts, and had a distinctly less commercial feel. Hermione had been unable to resist coming away from that stop without purchasing anything, and had picked up what was sure to be a gem of book on the preparatory theory involved in becoming an Animagi. She'd also enjoyed Scrivenshaft's Quill shop, where she'd gotten some high quality ink. It was a deep, silky purple, and Hermione planned on using it only in the journal Lily had gifted her for her birthday. It was far too extravagant for doing homework. After an indulgent half hour spent pouring over monogrammed stationary, color changing ink and other things of such ilk, the girls had headed to Honeyduke's sweetshop to explore and eventually pick something from the abundance of fantastical candies and treats . Mary had left them shortly thereafter to meet her mother for lunch, and Lily, Dorcas and Hermione had headed over to the Three Broomsticks in search of their own. Shopping, it seemed, could drive up quite the appetite.

"Godric, I'm hungry," Black complained from next to Hermione, a disturbing echo of her current thoughts. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. Remus, in particular Hermione noticed, was looking rather pale and peckish, as though he could certainly do with a good meal. She remembered that he'd been sick the past few days, and was glad he'd felt sufficiently well enough to come to Hogsmeade. He'd only gotten out of the Hospital Wing the previous afternoon, as far as she recalled.

"I'll go round up some food, shall I?" Potter offered, removing himself with some difficulty from their tightly packed, shared booth and staring expectantly at Lily once he had exited, as though he expected her to thank him for his gallant offer of chivalry. She did not, but did seemed please James was leaving, if only momentarily.

James disappeared into the crowd, and the table lapsed into silence in his absence.

"I'm glad you're feeling better Remus," Hermione offered after a minute, turning to smile at the boy. He flushed and mumbled a quick, 'thank you', hastily dropping his eyes to the table. Hermione frowned, wondering if she'd done the wrong thing in drawing attention to his illness. He was seeming quite self-conscious now, which hadn't been her intention at all.

She was distracted from any developing worry, though, by the unhappy discovery that Sirius had begun digging through her Honeyduke's bag.

"Hey!" she protested, snatching it away from him.

"You bought tooth flossing string mints," Sirius said disbelievingly. "You bought tooth flossing string mints, and no chocolate."

Black appeared stunned, and almost bizarrely offended by her purchasing choices. Hermione folded her arms defensively across her chest, profoundly fed up with this continued assault on her magical candy preferences, first from Dorcas and now from Black.

"My parents were dentists," she said tightly.

"What's a dentist?" Pettigrew asked from across the table.

"A type of muggle healer. Specifically for your teeth and gums," Lily explained. As the only other muggle born at the table, she was familiar with dentistry as well, though perhaps not as much so as Hermione.

"Oh," Pettigrew said. He turned to Hermione. "Why didn't they fix your teeth then?"

Hermione blinked at Pettigrew in shock, the rest of the table gaping at him as well, before she raised a hand slowly and self-consciously to cover her mouth.

Dorcas and Sirius reacted simultaneously. Dorcas, from her vantage point next to Pettigrew, punched him hard on the shoulder, prompting a terrified sounding squeak from the boy. Sirius flicked beer at him angrily, before leaning forward across the table and cuffing Pettigrew on the ear. Lily, for her part, was glaring heatedly at Peter, not deigning to alleviate Pettigrew from the pressure of harsh stare even when he began to physically shrink under it.

"That was horribly rude, Peter," Remus admonished him quietly.

The plump boy shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his ear. "Sorry," he mumbled, sounding cowed.

Hermione could not bring herself to say it was alright, looking pointedly away from Pettigrew and taking a deliberately measured sip of her butterbeer.

"So what exactly do dentists do?" Remus asked, an obvious attempt to move on from the awkwardness which had descended upon the table in the wake of Pettigrew's rude remark, but one which Hermione appreciated. Happy to indulge Remus' genuine curiosity, Hermione described some of the types of procedures her parents had engaged in at their practice, from routine teeth cleaning, to braces, to the somewhat macabre details of root canals and tooth extraction. By the end of her descriptions, the majority of the table was looking at least slightly alarmed. Pettigrew actually looked as though he might be sick, and perversely, Hermione found herself quite enjoying his strongly negative reaction.

"That's dead horrifying," Sirius announced when Hermione had finished. He shook his head ruefully. "My parents are terrified of muggles for all the wrong reasons."

He smiled suddenly, viciously, as a thought occurred to him. "I'd kill to see my mother undergo a root canal, it sounds awful!" Black paused for a moment as though to appreciate the thought, vicious smile still remaining firmly on his face as he contemplated the idea of his mother in pain with clear relish. "Mind you," he continued eventually, having deflated slightly, "if anyone tried to stick a finger in my mother's mouth, muggle or otherwise, I suspect she might just bite it off."

Hermione choked slightly on her butterbeer, equal parts aghast and reluctantly amused. "Muggles are generally tougher than most wizards think," she said primly when she had recovered herself.

"Clearly," Sirius agreed, nodding emphatically. "I had no idea they routinely submit themselves to voluntary torture sessions."

Hermione widened her eyes. She'd never before thought of it that way, but she supposed that, described out of context it did all seem a bit…gruesome, for lack of a better word. It was true that going to the dentist was generally an unpleasant experience, Hermione could acknowledge that, but she would hardly go so far as to call it torture. Black certainly suffered from a tendency to be overly dramatic. Him and Dorcas were alike that way. She wasn't sure why the trait was so much more tolerable in the blonde.

Potter had finally retuned with the food, though, distracting Hermione from her previous train of thought as he set about making room on the table top for a positively enormous pile of fish and chips. After he had finished arranging the large quantities of various dipping sauces which he had somehow managed to both obtain and successfully transport across the hazardously crowded pub without spilling, James reinserted himself into the booth. Everyone dug into the food gladly, all parties aligned in their mutual desire for greasy pub food, if not in anything else.

"So, what have you lot been up to today, then?" Dorcas asked after a bit, once they'd all spent a good few minutes stuffing themselves silly with food. She raised an expectant eyebrow at the Marauders.

"Well, mostly we were in Zonko's, stocking up on certain…provisions," James said, sharing a smirking look with his fellow Marauders.

"Shocking," Lily deadpanned, totally unimpressed with their exploits.

"All entirely innocent acquisitions, I assure you, Miss Evans," Sirius said smoothly, winking charmingly at Lily, either because he was a habitual flirt, or because he was seeking to temper the obvious disingenuousness of his words. Whatever the case, it didn't exactly have the disarming affect on Lily that Black had clearly intended it too.

"I'm sure," Lily said flatly, still unimpressed.

"Rem and Sirius buggered off to the bookshop for a bit though," James interjected. "Merlin knows why."

Potter must have caught the supremely disdainful look on Lily's face, because he fumbled to add, "Er, not that there's anything wrong with a bookshop, of course. Very exciting place, I'm sure, lots of…books," he trailed off awkwardly.

"The depths of your idiocy are truly astounding, Potter, did you know that?" Lily said conversationally. "It may be the one actual impressive thing about you."

James responded to this biting assessment by clutching dramatically at his chest and generally affecting the manner of one who had been deeply injured. "You wound me, Evans."

Lily rolled her eyes at his antics, and Hermione distinctly heard Dorcas mutter something under her breath about 'unnecessary bitchiness', the blonde going on to raise her mug of butterbeer to their red headed friend in a wry salute. Lily ignored the toast, choosing instead to direct her attention at the bulging bag of Zonko's products she'd just noticed by her elbow, and which she was now eyeing extremely warily. Perhaps because of the newly realized presence of this bag of joke products in such close proximity to her, or perhaps just because of the time, Lily seemed to make a sudden judgment that it was time for her to leave.

"Well, I'm due to meet Severus," she explained as she plucked up one last chip, dipping it into some violently orange sauce and then popping it into her mouth before deftly extricating herself from the booth in one swift move; a feat she somehow managed to accomplish without coming into any form of bodily contact with James Potter. "I'd best leave before that bag explodes on me, or something equally horrible."

James was suddenly looking rather offended. Hermione wasn't sure whether this was due to the fact that Lily was leaving to meet Snape, or the insinuation that he would allow something he had purchased to possibly harm or injure her. Either way, Lily payed him no heed.

"I'll see you girls later," she said, shouldering her bag and waving at Hermione and Dorcas, adding a cheerful, "Bye Remus," before she turned away and her petite form was promptly swallowed up by the massive crowd.

Hermione gave an absent- minded smile and a wave to the place where Lily had disappeared, and then let herself sink back against the cushioned wall of the booth, content to let the newly Lily-less conversation flow around her without actively participating or even listening. She raised her hand once more to her mouth, her mind drifting to Pettigrew's unkind comment about her teeth.

It wasn't that Hermione was unaware that her front teeth were slightly overlarge. For almost as long as she could remember she had always been very, pointedly aware of this. But she'd never thought that the relatively prominent size of her front teeth was to any degree so offensive that they warranted such rude commentary. As a child, Hermione had begged her parents for braces every few years, her plaintive requests usually prompted by unkind comments from schoolmates. But, despite their compassion for their daughter and her situation, her parents had always refused to do the procedure. They had reasoned that such a drastic measure as braces was unnecessary for such a 'minor cosmetic reason'. If things ever progressed to the point that the health of her teeth were in danger, of course they would do something then, but until such time her parents had thought it best to attempt to bolster Hermione's self-esteem through avenues which didn't involve altering her appearance. Hermione had understood their reasoning, even if there'd been times she hadn't exactly been happy about it.

Besides, she knew that both her parents had thought her slightly large teeth charming, even cute. Her father especially. He'd called Hermione his 'little bunny', something which had always made her smile, forgetting her self-consciousness. Now she wasn't sure whether she wanted to 'fix' her teeth or not. Would her parents, if she ever was reunited with them (a slim possibility, Hermione granted, but one that she nevertheless still couldn't fully excise from her mind) be disappointed if she altered them? Would _she_ be disappointed? One thing Hermione was determined on, was that she wasn't going to let the unsolicited opinion of an ill-mannered little snot like Peter Pettigrew effect any decision she made.

Despite the fact that Hermione had had limited direct interaction with him since she'd arrived in the 1970's, and even with her knowledge of Pettigrew's status as a future murder victim, the boy had made a distinctly negative impression on her. The fact was that for a variety of reasons, some concrete and some intangible, she simply didn't like Pettigrew. He was irritating, thoughtlessly small minded, and generally unpleasant, at least in Hermione's view. The rest of Gryffindor house, indeed, the rest of the school, seemed to regard Pettigrew as basically inoffensive, but the muggle born witch couldn't deny that there was just something about the boy's personality that rubbed her the wrong way. She found him off-putting, almost viscerally so, and she wasn't quite sure why. Mean comments about her looks certainly didn't go any way towards endearing her to him.

Raising her eyes to survey the assembled Marauders, Hermione wondered if, between Black and Pettigrew, it was simply possible that James Potter, along with his other faults, suffered from abhorrently bad taste in friends. This theory was somewhat shot to hell, though, by the fact that Potter was also friends with Remus, the thorough decentness of whom it was impossible to deny. And then there was Black. Hermione wasn't about to label him as 'thoroughly decent' ('thoroughly incorrigible' may have been a more apt descriptor) but it was undeniably true that her feelings regarding him had evolved significantly as of late. It was almost the direct opposite of what had happened to her with Pettigrew; she'd entered the 1970's predisposed to be sympathetic to Peter, and had found that that sympathy had gradually eroded the more she was exposed to the unpleasant actuality of the boy. Black she had hated well before she'd even got here, and she had continued to hate him upon her arrival. But, as with Pettigrew, Hermione found that the more interaction she had with Black, the more that her initial predisposition towards him was being turned on its head.

To her muted but gradually increasing horror over the last few weeks, Hermione had discovered that some sort of unwelcome, unanticipated familiarity had been undeniably engendered between her and Black during the events of their shared detention. She'd begun to notice it more and more with every subsequent interaction they'd had; the newfound uncomfortable knowledge and uneasy intimacy which now existed between her and Black. Or maybe it wasn't uneasy. Maybe it was far too easy, far too natural in its feel, and that was the problem. Black was a future murder, Hermione told herself, gritting her teeth tightly together in order to keep from looking at him, even out of the corner of her eye. But of course now she was no longer certain of that. Hermione had been so sure, in the beginning, when she'd first arrived, that Black was obviously guilty. Obviously a completely horrible person.

But over the course of that fateful detention, Black had been rendered irrevocably human to her. Hermione acknowledged now that this process of humanization had begun even before her and Black's detention. Looking back, it was all too obvious when the cracks in her vision of Black as a haunting caricature of a future murderer had first begun to appear; their forced potion's partnering, the nasty business between her and the Slytherin's which Black had stumbled upon. But everything had been solidified during that detention. Seeing Black's scar, showing him hers, and all that happened after, had sent Hermione hurtling past the point of no return when it came to shattering the previously comfortable surety of her views regarding Sirius Black. Hermione was no longer sure of anything, especially anything regarding Black. She let her eyes slide over to him, hoping she was being subtle, and watched, studying him with what would have been a bizarre level of intensity, should anyone have happened to notice. Hermione Granger was not a girl who liked to be unsure.

* * *

 _AN: Felt like a bit of a slow chapter to me. More plot advancement next time, I promise. But I do enjoy that it was very Marauder heavy, and I hope you did too. I've been messing around more with Sirius' POV, and I'm enjoying it. Hope you are too! Reviews are love y'all!_


	16. Tis the Season for Secrets

**AN:** _Happy Holidays folks! I gift you with this holiday chapter, and hope you gift me with reviews in return lol ;)_

 _Also, I may have written a smutty, Holiday one shot involving Sirius and Hermione which has nothing to do with this story, but was a fun diversion. So check that out too if you're are interested. I use the term 'Holiday' loosely, as it technically takes place at Christmas, but that doesn't really matter much. This chap of AP is considerably more Holiday heavy :) Cheers folks!_

* * *

Chapter 16: 'Tis the Season for Secrets

As the population of Hogwarts descended further and further into the realms of midterm exam preparation, 1973 began to pass in a blur, and before Hermione knew it, it was almost Christmas. She set down her quill, having just finished with her Defense Against the Dark Arts exam, and arched her back to pop it, feeling satisfied. Defense was the Gryffindor third years' final exam, scheduled on the very last day of fall term, and with its completion the Christmas Holidays had essentially begun. Hermione tilted her head, peering around the classroom to see who else had finished their exam early. With as much time as she had spent revising in preparation, Hermione herself hadn't found it all that challenging. She wasn't surprised to see that Lily, whom she'd spent a great deal of time studying with over the last few weeks, was done with her exam as well.

In fact, Dorcas, Mary and Peter Pettigrew were the only Gryffindor's still working. Dorcas looked quite relaxed, twirling her quill idly in her hand as she thought through a question, while Mary and Peter appeared considerably more on edge. Mary was actually chewing on the ends of her hair, and Hermione frowned briefly at the off putting sight before consciously averting her attention. Sirius Black was leant back boredly in his chair, raising the front legs of it precariously up off the ground, his eyes closed and his head tipped back as he balanced. James Potter was flicking his wand subtly in Black's direction from under his desk, seemingly trying to topple him to the floor. Remus, who had also finished his exam, was watching this activity play out with mild amusement. Hermione caught his eye from across the room, jerking her head in Sirius and James' direction, and sharing a smile with the other boy. Remus smiled tiredly back at her, and Hermione's own smile faltered slightly.

Remus always looked so tired, even when he was clearly happy. And by Hermione's estimation, he ended up in the hospital wing about once a month. It was almost as though he had some sort of chronic illness. But witches and wizards didn't really get chronic illnesses, not in the way that muggles did anyhow, and especially not so young. Did Remus have some rare wizarding disease that Hermione had never heard of? He did seem to be quite ill quite often. Hermione had mentioned this to Lily, driven by concern, when Remus had ended up in the hospital wing yet again last month, and the red head had confirmed that he had always been sickly.

Remus had a fair number of scars as well, Hermione had noticed. A deep one by his eye being the most prominent. When she had asked about it, Remus had explained it away as the result of an unfortunate encounter with a magical thorn bush that he'd stumbled into as a child. But that hardly explained how he'd gotten the rest of his numerous scars. Were they somehow related to his seemingly interminable illnesses? Hermione's instinct was that they were, but for the life of her she couldn't parse how at the moment. Something, she thought, was definitely wrong. Hermione just hoped that Remus was alright.

She let her eyes fall away from Remus and back onto her test, running them habitually over her answers even though she had already checked her work. Her attention caught on the question about werewolves, and she read over once more her description of the markers one could use to distinguish them from regular wolves when they were in their transformed state. It was such a ghastly affliction, lycanthropy, Hermione thought with a shudder. The transformations were said to be brutally painful, and intense physical exhaustion both preceded and followed them. This on top of the injuries werewolves tended to inflict upon themselves when they were kept in captivity, as was necessary to keep them from hurting anyone else while transformed.

Luckily, the condition was quite rare, although this rarity only perpetuated a lack of understanding among the general wizarding population that contributed to a considerably nasty stigma against known werewolves. What was it about humans, Hermione wondered, that whether muggle or magic they tended to be led so easily down paths of prejudice? She would have liked to think that, were she acquainted with a werewolf, she would exercise kindness and compassion towards them. Lycanthropy was just an illness after all, inflicted upon those who bared it through no fault of their own. Why couldn't it simply be treated like any other illness? Werewolves already suffered so much, it seemed a horrible injustice to Hermione that they should have to constantly battle bigotry and hostility along with the physical effects of their condition. She supposed that, for just that reason, most werewolves didn't advertise what they were, choosing instead to hide it in the hopes that people might treat them normally.

But signs of a monthly illness, and one lining up with the cycle of the moon, might eventually be difficult to hide. How sad that the moon, which Hermione had always thought so lovely, might serve as a symbol of fear and anguish to a werewolf, rather than a thing of beauty. Barely had the thought crossed her mind when Hermione jolted in her seat with sudden, heavy realization, all of the color draining abruptly from her face. The moon. Of course, the moon. How could she possibly have missed something so incredibly, stupidly obvious until just that very moment? Remus' boggart was the moon. She'd thought it strange at the time. Of course she had. What possible reason did anyone have to be afraid of the moon? Unless they were a werewolf.

Hermione's hands were shaking, she realized faintly. She couldn't seem to get them to stop. Her trembling hands knocked her quill, sending it sailing off her desk and skittering across the floor. Remus was a werewolf. It all made perfect sense, the retroactively obvious signs aligning into a clear picture of irrefutable evidence. It was so clear now, that Hermione didn't know how she hadn't seen it before. She fell back in her chair, shell-shocked, giving no thought to retrieving her quill, having completely forgotten about it.

What was it that Remus had said that day in the library? Hermione thought back, remembering how she had brought up the famous legend behind Remus' name the first time she had really talked to him. Remus, along with Romulus, had been one of the founding brothers of Rome. The two boys were said to have been nursed as children by a she-wolf. 'Bit of an unhappy coincidence', Remus had said. Merlin and Agrippa, she was an absolute idiot. No wonder Remus had been so clearly uncomfortable. Hermione had thought his reaction bizarre at the time, as had Lily, she remembered, but it certainly made sense now. How had Lily and she _both_ failed to put it together? But why would they have? It was such a rare condition, and neither of them had seen Remus' boggart at that point. But _still_. His constant illness, spiking monthly like clockwork; his scars, his ever present state of fatigue. It was all so blatantly obvious now. Godric, how had she not seen it?

Hermione's head felt suddenly heavy, and she let it drop into her hands. Her breath was coming quickly now, and she could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate as she descended into panic. This was utterly horrific. Poor Remus. Godric, that poor boy. Hermione felt tears prick her eyes. She needed to get out of here before she completely lost control of her emotions and had a public breakdown. Such an act would surely garner Hermione a great deal of unwelcome attention, and she had no desire for that type of suspicious scrutiny at the moment. Or ever, really, but especially at this moment. Exams were over, so there was no way a lapse of control on her part would simply be written off as a typical academically induced stress reaction. She had to get out of this classroom. She had to get out of there before she gave anything more away. She needed to leave right now.

Hermione lurched from her seat, forcibly composing herself as best she could before making her way toward Professor Snider, just barely managing to maintain a brittle air of calm as she approached his desk.

"Professor," she said softly. "May I be excused? I've finished my exam, and I'm feeling quite sick."

Professor Snider pushed his glasses up on his nose, surveying her intently. He must have decided that Hermione looked appropriately out of sorts, because he nodded his assent, bobbing his head slowly.

"You may leave, Miss Granger," he allowed. "I will collect your completed exam at the end of the period. Have a pleasant holiday."

"Thank you, Sir," Hermione said gratefully. "You as well."

And with a gesture of dismissal from Professor Snider, she fled the room, very deliberately avoiding the eyes of any of her fellow classmates.

* * *

Remus was frowning , staring with unease at the retreating back of an acutely emotionally distressed Hermione Granger. The door of the Defense classroom slammed shut behind her as she exited, jarringly loud in the mandated silence of the exam atmosphere, and few people startled in their seats. Remus' frown deepened. Hermione was usually unfailingly conscientious; it wasn't like her to go about slamming doors, even inadvertently. Remus exchanged a worried look with Lily Evans, whose expressive green eyes were scrunched up in concern over the welfare of her friend. He felt a kick to his ankle, and turned to find that, unsurprisingly, Sirius had been the one to so unsubtly demand his attention.

' _What the fuck?_ ' he mouthed, jerking his head in the direction of the door Hermione had just disappeared through.

Remus shrugged helplessly. He had no idea why Hermione had become so unexpectedly, shockingly upset, nor why she had felt the need to leave so suddenly. All he knew was, that to his particularly sensitive nose, the acrid smell of her potent upset lingered in the room even in the wake of Hermione's flight, stinging his sinus' and unsettling his stomach.

* * *

Later that afternoon, and the time had finally come for Hermione to say goodbye to her dormmates. The muggle born witch had spent what felt like an interminable few hours chatting absently with Lily, Dorcas and Mary as they did last minute packing for the holidays, and the exhaustion of faking normalcy and an unbothered state of mind for such a period had drained her significantly .Thankfully, she'd had a bit of time to collect her thoughts and get something of a handle on her emotions in the wake of her werewolf related realization about Remus before she'd been rejoined by her dormmates. But Hermione was still feeling quite out of sorts about the matter, and she knew Lily and Dorcas had noticed.

Despite the fact that Hermione had assured both of them she was quite fine the minute they'd gotten back from their Defense exam, neither had seemed particularly convinced. Lily had spent the majority of the afternoon shooting her worried looks and exchanging concerned glances with Dorcas over top of Hermione's head when the red head thought she wasn't looking. Hermione certainly couldn't blame either of her friends for wanting to make sure she was alright, not after the way she'd behaved earlier in Defense, but she was nevertheless glad that the time she would be able to escape their well-meaning scrutiny was now fast approaching.

Lily, Dorcas and Mary were all headed home for the holidays, and Hermione herself was planning to spend the majority of hers with Hagrid at his cottage, but wasn't set to head down until the next day. She found herself exceedingly grateful for this impending spell of isolation, desperate as she was to have some time to herself in order to further process what she had discovered about Remus. For the moment though, Hermione was still engaged with holiday farewells, the experience being hampered somewhat by her thorough degree of distraction and her friends' concern for her; all of this driven by her little public episode earlier in Defense.

"Are you _sure_ you're alright?" Lily asked skeptically, pressing her once more.

"Perfectly fine," Hermione assured her, voice full of falsely bright holiday cheer.

"If you insist," Lily said slowly, clearly still disbelieving. "Write to us though, will you?"

"Of course," Hermione promised, and in contrast to her earlier words of hollow reassurance, this pledge was completely sincere.

"You should be careful what you put in writing," Mary interjected softly.

Hermione jumped slightly, having momentarily forgotten the brunette was even there. Mary certainly did have a peculiarly adept ability to fade unnoticed into the background, only to occasionally reassert her presence with a vaguely disquieting comment or abstract gesture. It was quite an unsettling tendency, and Hermione wondered if she was unique among her friends in finding it so.

"Why would you say that Mary?" Lily asked, frowning at their dormmate in puzzlement.

Mary shrugged. "Just a handy bit of advice, I find," she said cryptically, an odd sort of smile on her face.

Hermione shivered, folding her arms across her chest as she experienced an unaccountable chill. Rather than questioning Mary on her strange pronouncement, the curly haired witch avoided the other girl's eyes, letting her own rove around the dorm in search of an open window, or anything else that might have let in an unexpected draft. She found nothing, though, the windows all tightly shut against the cold December air, as expected. Nonetheless, Hermione shivered.

"Don't be so paranoid, Mary," Dorcas was saying, shaking her head in flippant admonishment. "You'll give yourself an ulcer thinking like that. Or at the very least, get premature worry wrinkles."

Mary shrugged again, seemingly unbothered by either of these prospects.

"Well," Lily said eventually, after a period of somewhat awkward silence. "We'd best get down to the carriages, Hermione, but have a lovely holiday with Hagrid."

She reached forward to grab Hermione in a tight hug. "Do write," Lily whispered, and Hermione nodded her assent into her dormmate's sweater clad shoulder, the wool scratching her chin slightly.

"I will," she confirmed quietly, giving Lily a quick squeeze and then breaking away from the red head to hold her at arm's length, managing a heartfelt smile as she wished her friend a good holiday and a happy Christmas.

"Oi, what about me?!" Dorcas demanded, nudging her way in between Lily and Hermione and drawing them both into an aggressively exuberant hug. "Don't I get a proper goodbye?"

Mary watched quietly and impassively from the side as her three dormmates rocked back and forth in an impromptu group hug. It was few minutes before they all fell laughingly apart, Hermione looking more genuinely cheerful than she had previously, and happy holiday wishes on all three of the girls' lips. Mary, for the time being, remained silent, studying her trunk.

* * *

"Must you interrogate me whilst I pack?" Remus asked, pausing in his efforts to spare Sirius a reproving glance.

The Black heir snorted indelicately. "Whilst? You swallow a text book, Moony?"

Remus rolled his eyes. "Not all of us have so thoroughly rejected our aristocratic upbringings as to be determined to act like uncultured swine, Sirius."

"You didn't have an aristocratic upbringing," Sirius pointed out.

Remus raised an eyebrow. "And yet I speak so much better than you. Pity."

Sirius sighed theatrically, as though he were suffering under the duress of significant burdens. "You have no idea how hard I have to work to not constantly sound like a pretentious twat, Moony."

"Which makes it all the more of a tragedy that you usually don't succeed in avoiding it."

Sirius laughed, flopping down heavily onto his unmade bed. "I really will miss you over break, Rem. You're the only one who keeps me humble."

"Well someone should," Remus said wryly, folding a shirt and adding it to the pile in his suitcase. "Although I'd wager Hermione might be able to give me a run for my money in that department."

"Which department?" Sirius asked distractedly, having lent precariously far off the side of his bed in order to snatch an old snitch he'd knicked with James from the bed-side table. The thing had gone a bit slow at this point, but it was still fun to mess with.

"The keeping you humble one."

"Ah," Sirius hummed, nodding vaguely in agreement. "You might be right there, mate," he conceded, thinking of the many verbal spars he'd engaged in with Granger in the relatively short time he had known her. "I was hardly interrogating you about her earlier though."

"Weren't you?" Remus challenged.

"No," Sirius huffed, frowning mulishly and releasing the snitch into the air above him. "I just wanted to know why you thought she left like that."

"Because she was upset," Remus said mildly, unwilling to engage at the moment with his own disquiet about the situation.

"Well, yeah, obviously," Sirius responded rudely. "But I thought you might be able to narrow it down a bit more than that, Moony. I know you can smell things with your wolfy-senses."

Remus snorted. "Well put, Sirius," he said sarcastically. "But it's hardly that specific of an ability in most cases. I'm not a seer."

Sirius wrinkled his nose. "You know, I still think it's disturbing that you could smell her at all," he informed his friend.

Remus sighed tiredly. "Don't make it weird, Sirius. I can smell it anytime someone has that abrupt of an emotional spike around me. Especially when it's close to the moon."

"It's not all that close to the moon," Sirius pointed out, and indeed, the full moon had been well over a week previously.

"Yeah, well that was a hell of an emotional spike," Remus said, tossing a grey, balled up pair of socks into his school trunk. "Look, maybe she's upset about spending Christmas without her family for the first time and it all hit suddenly at once, I don't know."

Sirius hummed noncommittally. "I suppose you're probably right, Moony."

Remus paused in his packing to smirk at him. "I usually am."

"True," Sirius acknowledged easily. "So if you can smell everything then, Rem, what do I smell like?" Sirius wanted to know, content to change the subject away from that of Christmas and families.

"Rank," Remus replied immediately. "I'd rather not dwell on it."

* * *

Hermione was sat cross-legged on a chair in the Gryffindor common room, bundled up in her lavender colored dressing gown, waiting. She had been unsure, at first, how to best advantageously position herself. Should she face the portrait hole that served as the entrance to the tower, or turn her body in the direction of the boys' dormitory? Ultimately, Hermione had decided on the portrait hole, her choice having been finalized when Gilbert Addington had emerged earlier from the boys' dormitory. He had been perplexed as to why Hermione wanted to know the whereabouts of Sirius Black, but willing to confirm that, as far as he knew, the other boy wasn't up there. Hermione had nodded, Gilbert waving off her thanks and heading on his way, leaving her in relative peace to keep watch on the portrait hole, her eyes trained vigilantly upon it as she waited for Black's inevitable return from wherever it was he had got to. Her peace was relative only, precisely because of who she was waiting for and what she wanted to talk to him about.

Hermione had realized, once her dormmates had left and she'd had a minute by herself to think, that the some of the Hogwart's staff must have known about Remus' condition. His enrollment at the school would have been quite impossible without the knowledge of, at the very least, Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey. Hermione suspected that Professor McGonagall, in her capacity as Deputy Headmistress and with the additional factor of Remus being in her house, likely knew as well. Beyond these key figures, however, Hermione was unsure of who else on the staff might know about Remus' lycanthropy. Dumbledore hadn't deemed it necessary to inform anyone else of _her_ true origins. In fact, he had undoubtedly kept it deliberately to himself for reasons of both logistical and political ease, and to ensure Hermione's own safety as much as possible. It stood to reason that the Headmaster had made similar calculations in regards to Remus' situation.

In both cases, what Dumbledore had done in concealing certain key aspects of her and Remus' identities in order to install them at Hogwart's had quite possibly been illegal. Knowing the current makeup of the Hogwart's Board of Governors, Hermione seriously doubted that, had they been informed of Remus' condition, as would have been procedurally proper, they would have so much as let him into the school. And so, rather pragmatically, Dumbledore simply hadn't informed them. Hermione had to admire the man's gumption. After all, if the Headmaster hadn't seen fit to be so circumspect about her own situation, she'd likely have been detained and would probably still be being held for observation somewhere in the Department of Mysteries having invasive tests performed on her person. Hermione was cognizant enough to recognize that reality, and she was deeply grateful for the duplicity Dumbledore had engaged in to prevent it. It wasn't Dumbledore with whom she had a bone to pick at the moment. Unlike certain others, the Headmaster was adept at using discretion when appropriate.

It was a little after half past six when Black finally arrived, scrambling through the portrait hole clutching at a bevy of sweets that had surely been purloined from the kitchens, the ungodly amount of which he was struggling to properly keep a hold of.

"Black," Hermione said, announcing herself from the perch of her centrally placed chair. Sirius swore, startled, and proceeded to drop not one, but two pumpkin pasty's, hastily readjusting his grip on the rest of the sweets in order to prevent any more confectionary casualties.

"Circe, Granger, don't _do_ that!" Sirius cried, his voice overly loud as it echoed around the virtually empty common room.

Hermione remained silent, unmoved by Black's reflexive admonition, her lips pressed together in a thin, tight line of disagreeableness.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, her voice clipped.

"Well, I'm a little occupied at the moment, Granger, as you can see," Black said irritably, nodding in the direction of his armful of sweets.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "You can't possibly eat all of that at once, Black, you'll make yourself sick."

Black looked as though he were about to challenge her on the point, but then changed his mind at the last moment.

"Are _you_ sick or something, Granger?" he asked, wrinkling his brow dubiously at her.

Hermione's lips thinned, if possible, even further. "No, why do you ask?"

Sirius raised his eyebrows at her as though she had asked a stupidly obvious question. It was not an expression Hermione appreciated having aimed in her direction, nor one that was she was used to. Hermione was not a twit, and therefore did not make a habit of asking stupidly obvious questions.

" _Well_ , let's see," Sirius began. "You ran out of Defense earlier looking as though you were about to spew everywhere or pass out, and now you're sat down in the common room in your dressing gown glaring at me like I'm the one responsible for whatever affliction it is you're clearly suffering from."

"Very astute, Black," Hermione sniped. "But I'm in no mood for your observations or your so-called wit at the moment. I actually do need to talk to you. Privately."

Black made a point of peering exaggeratedly around the empty common room.

"It's vital that we not be overheard, and Gilbert Addington or Melinda Stimple could wander in at any moment," Hermione said, naming the two Gryffindor students besides her and Black who had chosen, or been forced by lack of viable alternative, to remain at Hogwarts for the holidays.

"What is this, Granger? You're freaking me the fuck out," Sirius complained, worry beginning to creep unwelcome into the back of his mind despite his annoyed tone. "Has anyone ever told you that you're overly dramatic?"

Hermione scoffed. "Isn't that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black?"

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione hastily cut him off before he could speak, anticipating him.

" _Don't_ say it! This is not the time for a hacky joke about your surname Black, this is serious!"

"I'm Sirius," Sirius responded automatically.

Hermione glared at him.

"Look, Granger, I don't know what you expect me to do when you keep throwing opportunities at me like that!"

Hermione simply continued to glare, unimpressed. "If you're quite done, Black, I really do have something I need to discuss with you."

"Fine," Sirius said through his teeth, finding himself thoroughly irritated by Granger and her prissy, demanding attitude; his annoyance juxtaposed with his growing curiosity over whatever it was she wanted to talk to him about so badly. "And where do you suggest we do that, Granger, given your stringent privacy requirements?"

"Your dormitory would seem to be the obvious place," Granger said matter-of-factly, setting aside the book she had been holding in order to fold her hands primly in her lap. "We can't very well go to mine, given the way the staircase is spelled against boys."

Black stared at her for a few seconds, appearing to be having trouble processing her request. "Fine," he said eventually, biting out the word with grudging acquiescence. "It'll give me a chance to deposit these sweets, anyway."

Hermione nodded, climbing to her feet and tightening the sash on her dressing gown.

Seeing that she was ready to follow to him, Sirius turned reluctantly in the direction of the boys' dorm, jerking his head towards the staircase. "C'mon then, Granger."

He tromped up the stairs, able to feel Granger trailing behind him even though she wasn't making much noise. The way Granger moved, stepping so delicately and quietly, was such a marked contrast to his own form of loud, disorderly motion that it almost rankled him. Sirius wasn't quite sure why it was grating on him so much, but it was. Perhaps because the way Granger was gliding about was so overtly, distinctly feminine that it felt borderline offensively out of place in the firmly masculine realm of the boy's dormitory. Really, it was quite presumptuous of Granger to have invited herself up here, Sirius thought with a frown. He could sense her presence at his back, and he struggled not to fixate on the vaguely pleasant smell of her shampoo as it wafted towards him up the steps. Coming to a stop before the door that marked the entrance to the third year boys' dorm, usually occupied by his fellow Marauders, but now depressingly vacant save for him, Sirius nudged it open with his shoulder.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. While maybe not quite the horrifying disaster site which she had been anticipating, Black's dorm room was a good deal messier than her own, and also carried the distinct odor of _boy_. Black dumped his armful of sweets unceremoniously onto one of the unmade beds, presumably his own, apparently uncaring of the fact that he was scattering pastry crumbs and gobs of sweetened custards and jellies all over the place where he would be later be sleeping. Despite her determinacy not to be diverted from her current course of action, Hermione found her mouth actually dropping open in shock at the sight of this slovenly display. Boys, or at the very least, Black, were revoltingly unsanitary.

Catching sight of her expression, and evidently discerning the cause of it, Black proceeded to roll his eyes dismissively at her. "It's called magic, Granger, I can vanish the mess later, get a grip," he said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against his bed-post. "Now what do you want?"

Right. Hermione shook her head to clear it, regaining her focus. She had come up here for a reason, not simply to gape at the living conditions of her male year mates.

"I want to know," she said slowly. "What you lot think you're playing at with Remus."

Black's face went immediately blank. "And what exactly do you mean by _that_ , Granger?" he asked. She could hear the undercurrent of hostility in his voice, and his slate, gray eyes were hard.

"I know about Remus' lycanthropy," she said seriously, confirming what Black likely already suspected.

Black remained silent for a few moments in the wake of her statement, Hermione's words hanging heavily in the air between them as he decided on his response. Apparently, he finally settled on physical intimidation. One moment Black had been lent up against his bed-post, and the next he had moved forward directly into Hermione's face, using his comparatively larger body to loom over her own much smaller frame, and reaching out to grip her forearm. Under normal circumstances it might have been intimidating, Black was tall for his age and slightly toned from quidditch, but at that moment Hermione was full of so much righteous anger towards him (and the rest of the Marauders, but Black was the only one currently available for her to yell at) that she didn't find herself cowed in the least.

"Whatever it is that you think you know, Granger, you'd best keep it to yourself," Black said urgently, squeezing her arm for emphasis, though not enough to hurt her.

Hermione could see the growing panic building behind Black's eyes. He was clearly worried she was some sort of bigot who planned to go blabbing about Remus' condition all over Hogwart's, making his life miserable, and likely succeeding in getting him banned from the school. She couldn't really fault his concern, Black didn't know her all that well, after all, but she still found herself offended by what it implied he thought her capable of. She and Remus were _friends_.

"You daft imbecile!" Hermione hissed, wrenching her arm from Black's grip, shocking him. "I'm certainly not planning on telling anyone! You, Potter and Pettigrew are the ones Remus needs to be worried about!"

"Us?" Black shouted, looking appalled at the very suggestion that he or any of the Marauders might do anything to jeopardize Remus. "What the fuck are you on about, Granger? We're Remus' best friends! We've all known him a hell of a lot longer than you, and none of us would ever betray him like that!"

"I'm not worried about conscious betrayal Black!" Hermione wailed, shouting now as well, caught up in her emotions. "I'm worried about your carelessness!"

"Carelessness?!" Black roared, and Hermione was very grateful no one else was in the dorm to hear them rowing like this.

"Yes! Carelessness!" she shrieked, the sash on her dressing gown coming undone without her notice, the flaps of her robe falling open to reveal her pajamas beneath. "For Godric's sake, the three of you call him Moony! I've heard you! Talking about his 'furry little problem' and his 'time of the month'! You're not as euphemistically clever as you think you are, Black, people will figure it out! _I_ figured it out! How stupid are you!?"

"We're not-," Black began to protest, seeming rattled by Hermione's accusations, but instinctually driven to defend himself and his fellow Marauders against them nonetheless.

"You _are_ ," Hermione insisted, cutting him off. She was no longer shouting, all of the fight having suddenly drained out of her, replaced by an urgent need to make Black understand just how stupidly reckless he and his friends, including Remus, were being.

"You have no idea what we would do to protect him," Black asserted lowly, having taken his cue from Hermione and stopped shouting, though his manner was still very intense.

She sighed. "I'm not questioning that, Black. I know you're his friends, I know that you care about him. I'm just telling you that you need to be a lot more careful. Because if the wrong person figures this out, it will be a disaster."

Black said nothing, staring mulishly at a point around her midriff as he maintained his stubborn silence. But at least he appeared to be listening to her now, even if he obviously didn't entirely like what he was hearing.

"I won't tell anyone," Hermione assured him. "Remus is my friend. But if I figured it out, Lily will too," Sirius looked up at that, meeting her eyes apprehensively. "I honestly wouldn't be surprised if she already knows."

Sirius grunted in reluctant acknowledgment, breaking her gaze and returning his eyes to somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. Hermione glanced down, seeing that her vest had ridden up slightly to expose a small sliver of her belly, which Black was now staring at. With an irritated huff, she promptly retied the sash of her dressing gown. Black snapped his eyes back up to hers, still saying nothing, having descended into moody silence. Hopefully though, he was thinking seriously about what she had said.

"Just be careful, Black," Hermione told him. "For Remus' sake, you need to be careful. Some secrets are too dangerous to let get out."

She leveled Black one last intent look, hoping desperately that she had managed to impart the seriousness of the situation to him. With her ominous warning still ringing in his ears, Hermione turned to leave, retreating to the girls' dormitory in order to finish packing for Hagrid's, her own set of dangerous secrets as her only form of uneasy company.

* * *

Despite Hagrid's best efforts to instill some seasonally appropriate good cheer in his charge (and the man did exert himself considerably, much to Hermione's gratitude) she spent a large part of her first Christmas Holiday of the 1970's feeling quite subdued. Her realization about Remus' lycanthropy, and her subsequent confrontation with Black over it, had set a rather dim tone of things, but Hermione suspected she would have had a miserable Christmas even without her unfortunate discovery and what had followed.

In her old life, she'd always enjoyed the Holidays, but now Hermione found herself haunted by memories of what had previously made them such a happy time. She missed her family, and Harry and Ron, more acutely than ever right now; even more so than when she had first arrived in the 1970's and been so utterly and totally alone. The thought that she was likely never going to get to spend another Christmas with any of them had hollowed out the place in her heart where holiday cheer normally dwelt. For the first time, Hermione felt she fully understood why so many people became depressed around the holidays, and it wasn't just because of the persistent lack of sunlight, though that didn't help matters.

Picking out a present for Lily had been achingly difficult, knowing that by all rights she should have been selecting something for Lily's son. A son that didn't even exist yet, and who now, by an accident of fate, would never be one of Hermione's closest friends. She'd seen a lovely wizard's chess set in a shop in Hogsmeade that would have been the perfect gift for Ron, and had actually had to turn away as the emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Even looking at the flossing string mints she'd picked up at Honeydukes hurt, reminding her as they did of her parents. Christmas had been the only time they'd really allowed sweets in the house, their normal strictness regarding oral hygiene banished the afternoons her parents spent making snickerdoodles and ginger snaps together with her. Hagrid, bless him, was the only constant between Hermione's new and old life, and he had certainly tried his best to cheer her up this holiday.

They'd spent the better part of her first afternoon back at the cottage trekking through the outskirts of the Forbidden Forrest in search of the perfect Christmas tree, eventually selecting a large spruce which they both agreed had quite the noble bearing to it. The tree ended up being so enormous that they could barely fit it through the door of the cottage, but with the some jostling, and a little help from Hagrid's pink umbrella, they finally did manage to get it inside. Subsequently, the two of them spent the evening decorating the spruce, mostly by hand, the old-fashioned, muggle way, but occasionally opting to utilize Hagrid's pink umbrella as well. The Hogwart's grounds were so steeped in centuries of potent magic that Hermione very much doubted that any spells she were to perform there would set off the underage trace the Ministry had on her, but she preferred to do things the muggle way when it came to Christmas anyway. Even if the rituals did make her slightly melancholy this year, performed, as they were, in the absence of her parents.

Hagrid, though, was as jolly and larger than life as ever, and his presence made things a bit easier for Hermione that holiday season, her first in the 1970's, than she felt they would have been without him. She spent much of her time over break reading, attempting to lose herself in words that blunted the reality of her own current, lonely existence. Adding to her displeasure that Holiday was the fact that Hermione had somehow managed to misplace the book that she'd been in the middle of reading before break, the one on Animagi theory that she'd picked up that first Hogsmeade weekend.

She was sure that she had left it in the Gryffindor common room, as she'd been reading it that last day of term while she'd been waiting to confront Black about his and the rest of the Marauder's criminal carelessness regarding Remus' situation. Hermione thought that she'd left it on the nightstand before she'd followed Black up to his dorm, but she'd checked back the next morning and the book hadn't been there. She hadn't the slightest idea where it had disappeared to, and she was quite put out about the fact that it had yet to turn up. From the little she'd managed to take in before the book had mysteriously vanished out of apparent existence, Animagi theory had proved to be quite fascinating. Hermione knew she'd been distracted that last day up at school, consumed with worry and sorrow about Remus, and then caught up in the business of confronting Black, but it wasn't like her to be so careless with a book as to lose it.

The whole situation was thoroughly irritating, much like Black himself. Though Hermione was feeling a spot of pity for him at the moment; up in Gryffindor tower all by himself for the duration of the Holiday, completely alone except for the company of Melinda Stimple and Gilbert Addington, neither of whom, insofar as she were aware, Black had any interest in spending time with, nor they with him. At least she had Hagrid, and the knowledge, however painful it might have been to dwell on, that were she and her family not separated by an inconvenient 20 years, they surely would have wanted to spend Christmas with her. Even if Hermione still didn't altogether like Black, it was now impossible for her not to feel some measure sympathy for him given his family situation, something which would have been absolutely unimaginable to her only a few short months ago.

Hermione didn't dwell too much on feeling sorry for Black that Holiday season though. She was plenty enough occupied with feeling sorry for herself, missing her family and Harry and Ron to the degree that she was. For all that she was celebrating at Hogwarts, perhaps the most magical place in all of the United Kingdom, it felt to Hermione that all of the usual magic had been sucked out of Christmas. She could barely even muster it within herself to appreciate the irony. When Hermione wasn't reading that Holiday, she was brooding, and she feared that she wasn't making a very cheerful house guest for Hagrid. Fortunately, her guardian seemed to understand her mood, and the reasons for it. But Hermione still felt mildly guilty about her unrelentingly glum attitude.

Hagrid spent much of the Holiday consumed with brewing pot after pot of various kinds of tea, thankfully the one pursuit in the kitchen that he was incapable of messing up, and proffering them to Hermione, which seemed to be his way of trying to cheer her up. It was very endearing, and it made Hermione smile, even if it didn't quite succeed in cutting through her black mood. They didn't talk overly much, and Hagrid was still engaged with game keeping duties up at the Castle, never mind that it was Christmas, which took him out of the cottage most days, but nonetheless, Hermione did feel that two of them were further bonding as result of so much uninterrupted time together. She'd never spent much time with Hagrid on her own before, usually having visited him with Harry and Ron. It was unquestionably a different dynamic when it was just her and Hagrid, but Hermione was becoming more and more comfortable with it. She needn't have feared that things would be awkward between the two of them without the boys. Actually, she suspected that her and Hagrid were going to be closer than ever in this time, and she found herself exceedingly grateful for that fact, if for little else that Holiday.

When Christmas day finally arrived, Hermione greeted it with mixed feelings at best. She felt the absence for her family more keenly on that day than on any other, but at least it meant that this torturously long Holiday break was almost over, and that before she knew it she could go back to drowning herself in school work to distract herself from her melancholy. In the meantime, she would have to content herself with being distracted by her presents. Hermione received a hand-knitted jumper from Hagrid, the delicately pretty shade of pale blue and the softness of the material making up for the fact that it was slightly over-large on her and a bit uneven in places. He'd clearly worked hard on it, and Hermione shrugged it on right away, thanking him sincerely and trying to push thoughts of the traditional Weasley jumpers Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley's had received every year for Christmas out of her mind.

Hemione, in turn, had gifted her guardian with a book on muggle gardening techniques that she'd special ordered from the Flourish and Blott's catalogue, and thought he might find interesting. Hagrid grew muggle, as well as magical, varieties of plants and the applications in the book she had picked out could be useful in both cases. He'd seemed pleased with her choice, beaming from ear to ear as he flipped through it, and thanking her profusely. Hermione got the feeling Hagrid didn't typically receive a lot of thoughtful Christmas gifts, and it only added to her general sense of sadness that Holiday season.

From Dorcas Hermione received a perfume which changed scents in order to better compliment a person's natural body chemistry, which was actually quite brilliant. Mary had sent only a card, while in contrast, Lily had truly outdone herself by gifting Hermione with a self-color-coding homework planner with which the always academically inclined witch was utterly delighted. From Remus, somewhat unexpectedly, she received a copy of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_. Hermione smiled. He must have caught the full name of Lady at breakfast one morning.

Lastly, and most unexpectedly of all, given the source and that it actually arrived on New Year's Eve rather than Christmas, Hermione received box of decadent, Holiday themed chocolates. There was a note as well.

' _In the hopes that this might improve your disposition towards me in the New Year. Cheers Granger (this may be a bribe).'_

 _-Black_

As she bit into a gingerbread flavored bar, the dark chocolate melting deliciously in her mouth, Hermione was left wondering how on earth it was that Black had managed to obtain a box of what were obviously muggle made chocolates.

* * *

 _AN: This chap has a lot going on, lots of developments and more scene changes than I think I usually do, so I hope it's okay and that you all liked it! The holiday chocolates are inspired by real life and are from a brand called 'Theo' which is like, organic and fair trade or something, and probably didn't exist in the 1970's, but oh well. The occasional anachronism in a fan fic is to be expected lol Happy Holidays folks, hope you enjoyed! Review please, it gives me so much life, and it's the festive thing to do! In the spirit of giving and all…_


	17. Small Steps

_**AN:**_ _So, as some of you are probably aware, it said awhile back that chapter 17 was posted when it was not yet up. Sometimes I go back and proof read old chapters for grammar errors and such, and then update them in the story, and I meant to do that but accidentally posted the updated chapter as a new one! I deleted it right away, but the notification had been sent out, leading to much confusion! Sorry! Anyway, this is the real chapter, hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 17: Small Steps

Sirius fell back heavily onto his unmade bed, his careless motion resulting in a distinctly inelegant landing which jolted his neck uncomfortably. He rubbed at it, grimacing. Just one more thing to add to his growing list of current annoyances, Sirius thought bitterly. His mussed sheets, now that he was laying on them, were also digging irritatingly into his back. His isolated Christmas Holiday had been utterly fucking miserable, and its only redeeming quality was that the sodding thing was finally almost over. Historically, Sirius' holiday experiences hadn't exactly been of the kind conducive to the formation of pleasantly festive memories which he could later look back on with nostalgia. This year, spent shut up by himself at Hogwarts, had done nothing to reverse that depressing trend.

One of Sirius' favorite holiday memories, there weren't really a ton to choose from, was from the year he was nine and Reg was seven. The two of them had been dragged by their parents (well, Sirius had been dragged, Reg had come quietly) to the Malfoy's suffocatingly pretentious, annual 'Seasonal Yuletide Ball', a bizarre setting, Sirius would concede, in which for anything pleasant to occur. Amycus Carrow, who'd always been an irritating little shit, had said something insulting to Regulus, Sirius couldn't remember what, and Sirius had punched him hard in the jaw. This had led to rather satisfying series of events in which blood dripped onto the white tile of the Malfoys' ballroom floor, they had to summon a house elf to clean it up, and Sirius got to leave the party early.

He'd been escorted home by his seething mother, who promptly abandoned him in order to return to the party after instructing Kreacher to lock him in his room. This had hardly bothered Sirius, who'd still been feeling giddy from his bout of righteous violence. He'd occupied himself with replaying the moment his fist had connected with Amycus' face over and over again in his mind and divesting himself of his stuffy formal robes. Sirius had _hated_ formal robes as a child. Actually, he still hated formal robes. He supposed his lack of having to wear them was the one plus of his current, almost at end, holiday.

Sirius was self-aware enough to recognize that he did not deal very well with long periods being by himself, and this seemingly interminable holiday had been one long stretch of agonizing isolation. When left to his own devices for too long, Sirius had an undeniable tendency to brood, and that had certainly held true the last two weeks. Rather than vainly attempting to stir up any dormant feelings of holiday cheer in himself, Sirius had instead spent a good portion of his break stewing over the confrontation he'd had with Granger about Remus.

For the first few days he'd mainly alternated between worrying about the potential effect of Granger's revelation on Remus (not to mention how he, Sirius, was going to tell Moony and the rest of the Marauders' about it) and reveling in what he considered to be his justified anger at both Granger and the situation in general. He resented her interference. As if she knew more about the situation than he did! Than any of them did! What right did Granger have to go shoving her nose into their business and acting all self-righteous about nicknames and such? Ridiculous!

But, as the days wore on and Sirius' anger gradually faded, he was forced to reckon with the uncomfortable reality that, in only a few months of being around them, Granger had already managed to figure out Remus' biggest secret, not to mention a few of his own as well. Once he made himself stop ignoring that fact, it was a lot harder to simply dismiss all of Granger's concerns outright. She _had_ figured out what Remus was. And the scariest bit was that she'd done it in less time than it had taken James and him first year, and they'd had the benefit of _living_ with the bloke. Was Granger just that fucking smart, or was she right that he and his friends were all that fucking stupid?

Sirius never would have thought that they were putting Remus in danger by doing something as seemingly innocuous as giving him a nickname. And it wasn't as though they could just stop calling him Moony, either. It was a habit by now; he, James and Peter had all been calling Remus that since first year. Remus _was_ Moony. But maybe they'd have to start being more cautious about who they called him that around. Sirius believed Granger when she said she wasn't going to tell anyone, but they couldn't have some git like Snape overhearing something and putting the pieces together. If he ever did, they'd have to figure out a way to kill him and make it look like an accident before he went announcing it to everyone, and that was a little ambitious, even for the Marauders. Not to mention that Remus probably wouldn't approve, even though it'd be his ass on the line if they didn't. He could be so self-sacrificing sometimes.

Sirius was dreading telling him about this. He'd get all self-conscious and self-loathing and convince himself Granger hated him even though she didn't; probably develop some misguidedly noble idea that she was better off not being friends with him. Somehow though, Sirius didn't think Granger would put up with that from Remus for very long. He doubted she'd let Moony run away and martyr himself over this, though that'd probably be the werewolf's first instinct. First year, when the rest of the Marauders had found out about his condition, Remus' immediate response when they'd confronted him about it had been to hang his head and offer to move out of their shared dorm room. It'd taken some time for Sirius, James and Peter to convince him to stay, and to convince him that they didn't care about what he was and still wanted to be his friends. Ultimately, the friendship between the four boys had only been strengthened as a result of everything being out in the open. Sirius speculated that the same might hold true for Moony and Granger.

Granger may have annoyed he as much as she inexplicably intrigued him, but now that she'd stopped being so overtly horrible to him, Sirius was actually glad that she and Remus were friends. He and James had found that, since Granger and Moony's friendship had solidified, Remus exercised most of his obnoxiously, swotty impulses with _her_ , and spent far less time nagging the two of _them_ about unnecessary studying. So really it was convenient for all parties involved. Plus, Sirius could admit that he secretly enjoyed arguing with Granger, and as they weren't actually friends, he'd probably get far less opportunity to do so if she wasn't hanging around with Remus so often. He'd never really understood the appeal of arguing with girls before, always having been mystified by the satisfaction James seemed to get out of doing it with Evans, but there was something about Granger that just made her impossible for Sirius to resist antagonizing.

Not that the dynamic between him and Granger was in any way similar to the dynamic between James and Evans, Sirius told himself, snorting at the thought. For one thing, he wasn't obsessively in love with her, and for another, there were actually quite a lot of things he didn't even _like_ about her. Her bizarre ability to see through his all of his layers of bravado and to accurately discern what he was feeling underneath was downright disconcerting. James and Remus both possessed the same ability to varying degrees (Peter was completely oblivious), but the two of them usually refrained from calling Sirius on his bullshit when he didn't want them to, a courtesy Granger clearly didn't feel the need to abide by. But he'd gone and gotten distracted by Granger again, something which had been happening to him with worrying frequency ever since her arrival at Hogwarts, when what he really ought to be thinking about was how the fuck he was going to explain to Remus that she'd figured out he was a werewolf.

Sirius had thought about writing him over break, but he hadn't wanted to spoil the bloke's holiday, and he figured he was better at doing things in person anyway. He tended to come off stiff and vaguely insincere in letters, something which was probably a result of the penmanship and composition lessons he'd been forced to endure as a child as part of his pureblood upbringing, and he hated how he didn't sound like himself. Or rather, he sounded like a warped, bizarrely formal version of himself which he detested. So Sirius had decided to nix writing as an option, the only remaining one being to tell Remus and the rest of the Marauder's about Granger's unexpected, newfound knowledge in person. He just hoped he didn't royally fuck up the delivery.

* * *

"And then she _yelled_ at you?" Remus asked faintly, seemingly still in shock. He was paler than usual, and his eyes were slightly flat, as though he'd partially retreated into himself.

"Absolutely, bloody tore into me," Sirius affirmed, nodding. He was currently relating the details of his werewolf related confrontation with Granger to his friends, and the whole process was vaguely excruciating. Sirius desperately wished he weren't still in the middle of it. He was developing a headache.

"Did you yell at her?" James wanted to know.

Sirius shrugged. "A bit, yeah," he admitted, thinking of the way he'd grabbed Granger's wrist and deciding not to mention that part. "You know me, mate. I'm not exactly one to shy away from conflict."

"What did Granger have to be mad about anyway?" Peter asked, frowning.

Sirius shrugged again, shifting uncomfortably. "Just, you know, that maybe we aren't being careful enough. With the nicknames and stuff."

"That's ridiculous!" Peter protested immediately.

Remus, who had closed his eyes and was lent back against his bedpost, as though unable to hold himself up and fully engage in the conversation at the same time, disagreed. "She's right," he said quietly.

Peter gaped at him, though the impact of his expression was probably negated by the fact that Moony still wasn't looking at any of them. "What?" he sputtered after a minute. James and Sirius both remained silent.

Remus' eyes snapped open. "She figured it out!" he said sharply, smacking his hand back against the bedpost for emphasis.

"So what do we do?" Peter asked timidly. "Does this mean we have to stop calling you Moony?"

"I think," James said slowly, "that we just need to be a bit more discreet about what we say and who we're saying it around."

Sirius and Remus both nodded, and after observing their nonverbal concurrence to James' point, Peter belatedly followed suit.

James clapped his hands together decisively, like they were at quidditch practice and he had just found a practical solution to a problem they were having with running a drill. He turned to Sirius. "Granger's not going to tell anyone about this, is she?"

"No," Sirius and Remus said at the same time.

"She said she wouldn't," Sirius added, shifting his gaze to a still shell-shocked looking Remus. "Honestly, mate, she mostly just seemed really concerned about you." He paused. "She did say she thought Evans' would probably figure it out too though."

"If she doesn't know already," James put in. "Lily is really smart."

Remus nodded numbly, and Sirius valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes. Even in times of crisis, James couldn't resist an opportunity to compliment Evans

"Look, Moony, I know you're upset, but Granger doesn't give a shit that you're a werewolf and she won't tell anyone," Sirius said, clapping a hand on Remus' shoulder in an attempt to be comforting. "It'll be okay."

"Yeah," Remus mumbled. "I know, I just-," he shook his head, pushing himself up off the ground to stand, rather than finishing what he'd been going to say. Maybe he hadn't known what exactly he'd been going to say.

Remus looked around at his friends, giving them a smile that wasn't quite all there. "I'll be fine, I'm just…still processing. I think I'll go and get some air. Study out by the lake or something."

And then he grabbed his cloak and left, the door falling heavily shut behind him as he went.

"But it's winter," Peter said faintly after a moment. "Why would Remus want to go study by the lake?"

"Pete, shut up," Sirius said irritably. He knew the bloke meant well, but Godric he was dense. Besides, he didn't have time for Peter's particular brand of obtuse nonsense at the moment. "I have an idea!"

"An idea for what?" James asked curiously, leaning forward. Peter shuffled eagerly towards him as well, probably suspecting a prank in the works. But if the three of them could pull this off, it was going to be so much more than that.

Sirius lent over and began digging his in his trunk, searching for a book that had recently come into his possession. His original intent, after he'd picked it up in the common room, had been to return it to its owner the next time he saw her. But after having read it, Sirius had concluded that this particular text was much more relevant to the interests of the Marauders than it was to Granger, and so he'd decided to borrow it on a semi-permanent basis without her knowledge. One could have used the word 'steal' but, really, that was such an overly harsh term.

Sirius doubted Granger would even miss it, what with the piles of books she tended to surround herself with. It was a wonder none of them had ever toppled over before and crushed her beneath them. It would be a death by book; a biblio-cide, if you will. Sirius snorted at the thought, head still buried in his trunk. What a tragic obituary that would make. Although it would certainly be fitting. The point was, he was doing this for Granger's safety, in order to keep her from being crushed to death by a pile of her own overly ambitious reading materials.

Finally, Sirius found what he was looking for, hauling _'Finding your Inner Animal: Advanced Preparatory Theory of the Animagi Transformation'_ out of his trunk and thrusting it excitedly before his friends.

* * *

Hermione returned to Gryffindor tower on the Saturday afternoon of January 5th, feeling the opposite of refreshed as a result of her holiday, but excited to be back at school. Classes were set to resume on Monday the 7th, and the students who hadn't spent their holiday breaks at Hogwarts had arrived via train that morning, giving them the weekend to settle in, spend time catching up with the friends from whom they'd been separated, and re-acclimate themselves to an academic environment.

Hermione barely had time to so much as step foot in the common room before she was ambushed by a blonde blur which turned out to an eager Dorcas intent on attacking her with a hug. She had only barely managed to recover from this when Dorcas squealed loudly, directly in Hermione's ear, and promptly abandoned her for Lily, who had just stepped through the portrait hole and, catching sight of their blonde friend speeding towards her, appeared to be wisely bracing herself for impact. Hermione chuckled at the sight, making her way over to Lily at a much more sedate pace than Dorcas had.

Her friends must have somehow sensed it the moment she entered their radius, because as soon as Hermione was close enough, both girls reached out simultaneously in order to pull her into their group hug, startling the muggleborn witch slightly. The level of physical affection involved in the friendships she'd formed with her dormmates was still something Hermione wasn't quite used to. It was a marked contrast to how she'd behaved with Harry and Ron, and verging on uncomfortably close to how Parvati and Lavender had behaved with each other. Not that either Lily or Dorcas were anything at all like her former dormmates, excepting a propensity for overly exuberant reunions, that is. Hermione might have disdained such practices in the past, but she had never had close girlfriends before, and she was finding that some rituals which she may have previously judged from the outside to be aggravatingly frivolous, were actually secretly quite fun when you were one of the people participating in them.

Dorcas, as it turned out, was the only one of them who'd actually managed to have a decent holiday. She and her family had gone to Paris, and Dorcas had had loads of fun sneaking off on her own in order to flirt outrageously with muggle, French boys and consume ridiculously large quantities of bread. Her mother disapproved of both the boys and the bread (Dorcas explained that her mother was on a carb-restrictive diet, and that she thought Dorcas was too young to date), but that certainly didn't stop Dorcas from indulging in both.

In a far cry from running wild in the streets of Paris, Lily had gone home to spend the holiday with her parents and sister, which sounded nice enough on the surface, but had ended up being a bit of a nightmare, actually. According to Lily, her sister Petunia had been typically snotty and standoffish with her right from the start. Lily had expected this attitude from her, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with, especially since she'd been so close with her sister before Hogwarts. This year though, the usual tension with her sister was just the beginning. As Lily began to detail her first meeting with her Petunia's new boyfriend, a deeply unpleasant man named Vernon Dursley who seemed to be under the impression that she went to some kind of special school for delinquent and otherwise socially troubled youth, Hermione almost choked on her afternoon coffee.

"It's the most outrageous cover story Petunia possibly could come up with!" Lily complained. "I don't know why she would purposely invent something so hurtful. I mean, I know we haven't been getting along the best these past few years, but I still can't believe…," she trailed off, shaking her head.

Hermione wrapped Lily in a half hug. She had more understanding than her friend knew of just how rotten Petunia and Vernon Dursley could be. If memory served, they'd made up a similar story about Harry in order to explain his Hogwart's absences to their relatives and nosy neighbors. It seems that Petunia, at least, had already had some practice at this deception.

"What. A. Bitch," Dorcas declared emphatically.

Lily shrugged half-heartedly, clearly upset, and Hermione frowned. She _hated_ what the Dursley's had done to Harry, and now, what they were already doing to Lily. The abuse Harry had endured at their hands was utterly horrific, and that was only taking into account what Hermione had been able to glean from offhand comments of Harry's. She was quite sure he hadn't shared anything near the full extent of what they'd done to him with either her or Ron. Hermione felt somewhat blasphemous even thinking it, but the fact that Dumbledore, who'd surely known more about the situation than her, had allowed Harry to return to the Dursley's every summer and suffer at the hands of those awful people made her disinclined to trust the man's judgement in all things. If she were still around when the time came, Hermione simply didn't know how she'd be able to stomach allowing Harry to go to the Dursley's.

No, she decided abruptly, shocked by the sudden strength of a conviction she hadn't thought she was brave or foolhardy enough to commit to. If it were at all within her power, she wouldn't let Harry go to the Dursleys. Hermione may not have been able to stop his parents from getting murdered, but she would not consign her best friend to a childhood filled with neglect, abuse and misery on top of it all, and damned the potential consequences of the timeline!

* * *

The first time Hermione saw the Marauder's in the wake of the Christmas Holidays was, to put it mildly, a tad bit awkward. The moment she spotted them at breakfast Sunday morning, it was immediately obvious to her that Black had told the rest of them what she'd discovered about Remus. Potter was eying her warily, trying and failing not to be obvious about it, while Black's gaze was much more direct. He was staring blatantly in her direction, frowning at Hermione as though she were a particularly challenging set of Transfiguration problems that he was struggling to figure out. Pettigrew squeaked and looked away the moment she made eye contact with him, and the fear she apparently now inspired in the boy sent a satisfying little shiver up Hermione's spine. That could prove useful, she thought.

Remus though, who out of all of them was the one whose reaction she was most worried about, was refusing to look at her, studying his toast with an unwarranted intensity. Hermione sighed. Her friendship with Remus was something she enjoyed, and she didn't want this to change things between them. Hermione supposed she would just have to act normally around him and hope that eventually he realized she didn't see him in any sort of negative light because of this and followed suit.

Over the next few months, Hermione was relieved to find that things did, indeed, slowly begin to return to normal between her and Remus. Although he'd sought to avoid her at first, Hermione had been remarkably persistent about inserting herself into his presence whenever possible, a practice which was facilitated by Remus' fellow Marauders, and Black in particular. Hermione was grateful for, if somewhat surprised by their assistance. She'd never thought that James particularly liked her, and she had no idea how Black felt, but it seemed that whatever their own inclinations toward her might have been, neither of them wanted Remus to lose a friend.

Gradually, Remus seemed to accept that Hermione really wasn't going to treat him any differently than before, and their friendship settled back into its usual pattern, which mainly consisted of shared study sessions with Lily and the exchanging of book recommendations. All in all, she was quite pleased with how the situation had resolved itself. They hadn't exactly talked about Remus' lycanthropy yet though, not directly at any rate. Of course, it wasn't really something you could easily bring up in public without fear of being overheard, and they had to be especially careful around Lily, perceptive as the red head was. In any case, Hermione had judged that it was best to let Remus be the one to broach the subject; when, and if, he decided he wanted to. She'd found out his secret without him choosing to tell her, and thought it was only fair that it should be Remus' choice to divulge anything further. Hermione wasn't going to push him.

In keeping with the general moratorium on the subject of lycanthropy which now enveloped a majority of the Gryffindor third years, Hermione was exceedingly gratified to note that the Marauders appeared to making an effort to be considerably more circumspect about Remus' condition. At least in public. She hadn't heard any of them call him 'Moony' once within her ear shot since before Christmas. They likely still called him that in private, but that was absolutely fine with Hermione. The muggle born witch recognized that the nickname they'd bestowed upon Remus, along with sophomoric jokes about his 'time of the month' and other such nonsense, were probably integral to his sense of belonging in his friend group, and she had no desire to take that away from him. She just wanted all of them all to be a bit more careful, and she was pleased to see that the Marauders were apparently attempting to heed her warning. For Remus' sake, she could only hope they would continue to do so.

* * *

"Where's Mary got to, do you think?" Lily wondered, lowering her Potions book to her lap, and glancing idly around the courtyard where the Gryffindor third year girls were studying. Hermione raised her eyes from her own text, the warm spring breeze, which had already tempted several tendrils of her hair free from her ponytail, was now attempting to flip the pages in her book without her permission. She flattened her hand against them, stilling their would be fluttering.

Mary had been with them just a minute ago, the last time Hermione had looked up from her book. The curly haired witch peered curiously at her watch, startled to find that almost 45 minutes had passed while she'd been absorbed in her History of Magic reading.

"When did she leave?" Hermione wondered.

Lily frowned, "I'm not sure," she said slowly.

Dorcas shrugged. "I wasn't paying attention."

The three of them looked helplessly around, craning their necks in search of any sign of their missing dorm-mate, and finding none. In fact, everyone _but_ Mary seemed to be out taking advantage of the newly warm weather and enjoying the sunshine.

Hermione shook her head. "Why would she just leave without saying anything?"

Lily sighed. "She's been so withdrawn this year. I don't know what's going on with her."

Dorcas nodded in agreement. "She's been disappearing more and more on us lately. It's strange."

Hermione set aside her book, drawing her knees up to her chest. She shifted uneasily, taking care to be mindful of her skirt, lest she accidentally flash her knickers at anyone. Where _was_ Mary always disappearing too? The brunettes behavior had grown increasingly peculiar over the last few months, and Hermione was as at a loss to explain it as either Lily or Dorcas. But while she may not have known what exactly was wrong with Mary, she did have a nasty, sinking feeling that it had something to do with her. If it wasn't for her presence in the 1970's, would Mary be out by the lake studying with Lily and Dorcas instead of her? Hermione thought that she probably would be.

She was very much aware that her arrival at Hogwart's had disrupted the trio her dormmates had previously formed without her. Hermione had thrown the original configuration of their friendships off balance, and eventually, without meaning to, all but supplanted Mary's former place in the group. So where, what, or to whom had the brunette turned instead? What had Hermione set in motion merely by becoming close friends with two out of three of her dormmates? What did it mean that Mary wasn't here by the lake engaging in a leisurely afternoon of studying with her formerly close friends, friends that were now close to Hermione instead? And just where _was_ Mary anyway?

Hermione shook her head again. She was being paranoid; her guilt at the growing distance between Mary, Lily and Dorcas, and her fear that she was the cause of it, were making her worry about things that didn't warrant worrying about. Mary was harmless, she told herself firmly. The brunette was sweet, if somewhat strange. Hermione would just have to try harder to include her in the future, before she drifted away from all of them entirely. If, indeed, she hadn't already.

* * *

As the school year drew to a close, Hermione found herself feeling a curious combination of conflicting emotions about what she had come to accept as her likely indefinite presence in the 1970's. On the surface, she was more at ease than ever in her new era, having adjusted herself over the preceding months to her new reality. But the trouble was that it didn't always _feel_ like reality to Hermione. Her entire situation was so outlandishly ridiculous that she sometimes struggled to believe entirely in the solidity of it. What were the odds, Hermione wondered, that rather than having traveled back 20 years in time, she was actually laying in a hospital bed somewhere in the 1990's lost in some sort of elaborate fever dream?

Once, when she had been a small child, she'd had an accident, something which, while it hadn't resulted in any broken bones, had been severe enough to warrant the dispensing of pain medication to her by a doctor. Hermione wasn't sure what that pain medication has been, but its effects on her had been intriguing at the same time as they had been frightening. While she had been on the medication, it had felt to Hermione as though she were outside of her body, watching someone else living her life from a short distance away, hovering over herself (or someone who was not quite herself) and observing impassively, unable or unwilling to effect any action. And sometimes that's how it felt to Hermione being in the 1970's. Disassociation, she believed it was called.

That feeling, and its intermittently successful persistence of her ever since she had arrived here, troubled Hermione, and she did her best not to let it overtake her too often. It was tempting at times, though, to let herself sink into that unique kind of numbness. Times like when she remembered that both Lily and Dorcas would be dead in less than 10 years' time. Because the alternative to disassociation was being painfully present, painfully invested, but equally helpless.

At some point over the past year though, Hermione had decided not to let herself be entirely helpless. She thought of her suddenly decided vow not to let Harry go to the Dursley's. It wasn't as though the muggle born witch suffered from any delusions that she would certainly be able to prevent this, but she'd decided to try; no matter who or what that put her up against. This was her life now, and Hermione was not willing to be merely a spectator in her own life. On some level, she knew she was being selfish. Who knew what possible effect that her saving Harry from the Dursley's would have on the broader timeline; maybe it would be catastrophic, maybe it wouldn't do anything except change her best friend's life for the better. But her presence here alone had already changed so many things in equally unfathomable and probably impactful ways.

Hermione was deeply grateful for Dumbledore's decision to let her stay at Hogwarts, but maybe by doing so the Headmaster had unknowingly released a bull in a china shop. Or maybe he'd done it knowingly. There was a reason that Hermione had been so shocked by his offer, a reason that staying at Hogwart's hadn't even occurred to her as a viable option before he'd mentioned it as though it were a foregone conclusion; it was dangerous. And it put her smack dab in the middle of most of the players who would soon participate in a war that Dumbledore, in his close to infinite wisdom, had to know was coming just as much as she did. Why the Headmaster had chosen to take such a monumental risk in keeping her here, Hermione didn't know, but she had a feeling it wasn't a purely altruistic impulse on his part. She had a feeling it wasn't an impulse at all.

But now wasn't the time for such deep thoughts and speculations. Term was officially over, and Hermione had come to see her friends off. As Lily, Dorcas and Mary boarded one of the horseless carriages bound for Hogsmeade station and the train home, Hermione waved heartily, pushing aside any feelings of sadness about her impending three months of isolation, and pasting a broad smile on her face. Climbing into the carriage, Mary gave her a slight nod an enigmatic look before disappearing within, while Lily and Dorcas were both considerably more effusive in their final goodbyes. Once they had all vanished out of sight, Hermione dropped her hand, turning away.

She was just about head to Hagrid's, where her trunk of belongings had already been deposited, when she was overcome by the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that befalls a person when they suddenly realize they are being watched. Spinning around, Hermione found herself locking eyes with a distinct set of icy, grey ones. The blonde, outgoing seventh year appeared unbothered by her discovery of him staring, and far from averting his eyes, he kept them trained on her, his gaze coldly evaluating and his now slightly crooked nose adding to his menacing appearance. Hermione shivered involuntarily, despite the warmth of the day. Just how long, she wondered, as he finally looked away from her in order to step up into a carriage, had Lucius Malfoy been watching her?

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _So, this chapter is a bit shorter than my usual, but it's kind of a transition chapter. I wanted to speed up the time a little, and I'm so excited to be done with third year! Hope you guys enjoyed, as always, I appreciate reviews so much, they feed my soul!_


	18. Rising Tensions and Repeated Denials

_**AN:**_ _So are you guys as shocked as I am that I've managed to come out with a new chapter this quickly? It was just so much fun to write though! Hope you guys enjoy. Kind of a hasty proofread, so let me know if you spot any mistakes!_

* * *

Chapter 18: Rising Tensions and Repeated Denials

It was towards the end of the summer of 1974 that Hermione seriously began to fret over what she ought to do about Hagrid. After having spent the better part of three months straight living with the man, she really could put it off no longer. It was on a dry, hot afternoon in late August, just about a year after she had first met Hagrid for the second time, that Hermione came definitively to this realization. The muggle born witch had been laying out by the garden, ostensibly studying her fourth year Transfiguration text (purchased all the way back in early June, as Hermione hardly needed an advanced copy of the coming years' materials list to deduce that they'd be reading the next book in the series by the same author they'd been using since first year) but really using opportunity to work on her vitamin D uptake and think. It was in the midst of this endeavor that she had spotted Hagrid poking about in his cabbages with his pink umbrella.

Hermione sat up with a sigh, letting her sunglasses fall by the wayside. It would have been quite the farcical picture, the giant of a man and his mis-matched, girlish accessory, were it not for the fact that the sight of it had become so incredibly frustrating to her. It simply was not fair. Hagrid was _innocent_. She knew that, and she suspected that Dumbledore knew it as well, even if he couldn't, or wouldn't, convince the Board of Governors or the Ministry of Magic of that fact. It was an absolute outrage that Hagrid, who had done nothing wrong and was one of the kindest men she had ever met, had been deprived of his education from the age of 13 on based largely on the testimony of a future mass murder, namely Voldemort. That, as a result of this, he was now reduced to doing magic both illegally and in secret infuriated her.

Hermione supposed that she should be thankful her guardian was still able to do any magic at all, Hagrid having retained the pieces of his broken wand and stowed them away within his trusty pink umbrella long ago, but the injustice of the whole situation was increasingly maddening to her. She just didn't know what to do about it. After much rumination on the problem, Hermione eventually came to the unhappy realization that her only -realistic option was to speak to the Headmaster about it. Frankly, she didn't have a lot of hope regarding a positive outcome of such a conversation, but the muggle born witch was at a loss as for what else to do. Hermione expected that she would end up stonewalled by a sympathetic seeming, but ultimately unrelenting, Dumbledore who would insist that, tragic as it was, his hands were tied in this case and he could do nothing. But, for lack of any other viable plan, Hermione knew that she had to try.

* * *

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles and let out a deep sigh.

"I am truly sorry, my dear girl," he said, peering wistfully down his long, crooked nose at Hermione. "Truly sorry. But, perhaps more than most, you and I must confront the unpleasant, irrefutable fact that there are many injustices in this world of ours which, although grievous, are impossible for us to correct. That is an unpleasant state of affairs but it is a reality you must accept nonetheless, my child. Again, I am sorry."

Hermione nodded stiffly. She had expected this, but it was still disappointing. This meeting had succeeded in one thing though, if not the justice for Hagrid which she had sought; her impression of the Headmaster as someone on whom she could count to espouse high ideals and endless platitudes, but little actual help, had been cemented. Hermione suspected that she would get very little more from Dumbledore than that which he had already given her. And indeed, he had given her much for which she was grateful; her place at Hogwarts, his discretion regarding her true origins, and his considerable efforts toward finding a way to send her home, futile though they might have ultimately been. But it was becoming clear to Hermione that perhaps the Headmaster was unwilling to expend himself any more on her behalf, or on the behalf of those she cared about it, when it did not so conveniently align with his own interests, whatever those might have been.

"I understand, Sir," Hermione said quietly.

She pushed back her chair, the wooden legs of it scraping discordantly on the flagstone floor as she moved it away from Dumbledore's desk. It was with a curious note of finality hanging in the air that Hermione stood and straightened her skirt, her manner almost grim. She took care to nod respectfully at the Headmaster before turning away from him, leaving his office without another word, finding herself glad to put the room, and the man within it, behind her. But as Hermione reemerged into the comforting familiarity of Hogwart's well tread corridors, she did so weighed down by the uncomfortable realization that in order to safeguard her own future, and that of of those she loved, she might have to work, if not directly against Dumbledore, then at least around him. It was a daunting proposition. She would have to be very careful.

* * *

"Bit grim, wasn't it?" Dorcas observed of the Sorting Hat's start of term song, leaning over to whisper to Lily and Hermione once the hat had finished with the singing and started in on the sorting.

Hermione frowned contemplatively. Dorcas was certainly right in that this year's particular musical missive had gotten a bit, well, ominous in tone near the end. After it had completed a variation of its usual explanation of the differences between Hogwarts' four houses, the hat had gone on to warn of dark times on the horizon, stressing the importance of overcoming superficial differences and uniting in the face of the obstacles that were to come. As a result of the hat's somewhat unsettling advice, this year's crop of incoming new students was now looking more petrified than ever.

Professor Dumbledore had continued to smile blandly throughout the entirety of the hat's song, but his usually twinkling blue eyes had turned shrewd at its words, and Hermione could see that Professor McGonagall was visibly troubled as well. The two adults had exchanged a barely perceptible but pointed glance as the weighty words of the hat's closing statement echoed throughout the Great Hall. Even Professor Slughorn, whom you could usually count on to appear unduly eager in anticipation of a feast, seemed subdued in the wake of the Sorting Hat's cryptic warning.

Hermione looked at Lily and Dorcas on either side of her, and then at the Marauder's seated directly across the table from them. Remus, sandwiched in between Potter and Black, was looking positively ragged, and Hermione realized with a pang that there was a full moon that very night. No wonder Remus looked so terrible. She'd thought at first that it might have been because of the hat's warning, but now she realized that his current miserable condition could have only been the result of the coming full moon. Hermione was faintly surprised Remus was even attending he Welcome Feast at all, horrible as he must have been feeling with moonrise in just a few hours.

But she supposed it might have looked suspicious if he weren't there; that the wrong person might have noticed his absence. Remus was clearly suffering for his attendance though. His face was shockingly pale and he was leaning heavily on Potter and Black in turn ,transferring his weight between his two stronger friends periodically, the latter boys clearly trying to be subtle about what has happening. It was obvious if you were looking though, and despite the profound awfulness of the situation, Hermione almost smiled at the sight of it. She didn't consider herself an overly sentimental girl, but she had to admit that the three of them were really quite sweet. Pettigrew, stuffing his face unconcernedly with roasted potatoes on the other side of Potter, was definitely the odd man out.

Hermione let her eyes linger too long, and Black eventually noticed her looking, returning her stare baldly. There was something in his eyes; a disconcerting sharpness that was almost knowing. She wasn't sure if it was related to Remus' condition, the hat's warning, or something else altogether. Whatever the case, it was vaguely unsettling, and Hermione broke his gaze, running her eyes over the surrounding sea of Hogwarts students instead, letting her thoughts drift once more to the Sorting Hat's ominous song. She knew that the vast majority of her fellow students, including her two best friends, had likely been baffled by the hat's words, and that most of them were either clueless or willfully oblivious as to what the warning it had just given them might imply.

But Hermione, with her outsize knowledge of the future, was far from clueless, and neither, it seemed, were many of the adults in the room. War would soon engulf the wizarding world, and the poisonous ideology propelling that eventuality had already begun seeping insidiously throughout the walls, and among the students, of Hogwarts itself. The hat's warning, Hermione feared, had come too late.

* * *

Quidditch, the perennial irritant intent on disrupting Hermione's otherwise contentedly scholastic existence on at least a monthly basis while she was at school, was rearing its ugly head early this year. The season opener between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had been scheduled for late September and, for reasons which eluded her, she had been coerced into attending it by her so called friends. Why couldn't quidditch be more like muggle sports, Hermione wondered as she ascended farther up in the stands, following glumly behind Lily and Dorcas. Why did it have to be in season practically _all year round_? When did these people rest? Weren't' they exhausted? She certainly was, and the game hadn't even started yet.

"I still don't understand why we had to come," she groused to Lily and Dorcas, tightening the sash on her coat against the chill of the autumn wind as the three of them took their seats. "Gryffindor isn't even playing, so there's really no reason for us to be here," Hermione pointed out, quite practically she thought. "Mary isn't here."

"Mary isn't anywhere lately," Dorcas noted bluntly. "I've barely seen her at all this year except in classes. She doesn't do _anything_ anymore, at least not with us, so don't go trying to use her as an excuse."

"Well, Remus isn't here either," Hermione added stubbornly, keen to refocus the subject on her forced attendance of a school sporting event and away from their conspicuously absent dormmate. She wanted to discuss Mary right now even less than she wanted to be at this quidditch match.

"Of course Remus isn't here," Lily said absently. "It's almost the fu-," she caught herself just in time, locking eyes with Hermione. "He's sick," she finished somewhat awkwardly, darting her eyes worriedly over to Dorcas. The blonde was busy adjusting her scarf though, and hadn't appeared to notice anything amiss.

Hermione and Lily shared a prolonged, significant look, their newfound awareness of each other's shared knowledge of a certain mutual friend passing between them. The redhead's near slip just now had confirmed what Hermione had suspected for some time; that Lily knew about Remus' lycanthropy. After another moment of both girls unsuccessfully attempting to utilize their best silent, telepathic communication skills, Lily gave a helpless little shrug and returned her attention to the quidditch pitch, onto which the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams were now emerging. Hermione fell back into her seat, resigned to the fact that she and Lily would have to talk privately later. For now, much to her displeasure, she would be spending the next few hours watching a sporting event which she was not the least bit interested or invested in.

"Gryffindor isn't even playing," she reiterated petulantly, folding her arms across her chest for good measure.

"We're scoping out the competition," Lily informed her seriously, digging through her bag and eventually emerging with a pair of high powered binoculars, presumably for just that purpose.

Hermione gestured exasperatedly at Potter and Black, who were huddled together with the rest of the Gryffindor team a few rows in front of them, eyeing the expanse of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw players with what looked like unduly intense concentration. "Isn't that what they're doing? Why should we have to participate as well?"

Dorcas groaned playfully, shoving lightly at her. "Because it's _fun_ Hermione, don't be such a grump!" she admonished. "Besides, Lils is the only one actually trying to scope out the competition. Personally, I'm mostly just here to scope out the cutest players. Amos Diggory is quite fit, don't you think?"

Hermione sought out the 6th year Hufflepuff, running her eyes over his yellow clad form. He looked rather like Cedric, but he was less aggressively pretty than his son would later be. Something about the nose. "He's certainly very…blonde," she settled on eventually. "But yes, I suppose he is attractive," the curly haired witch allowed with a small smile.

Dorcas grinned, and Hermione's small admittance even had the effect of momentarily distracting Lily from her hawkish quidditch watching, the redhead lowering her binoculars and turning to her fellow muggleborn with interest.

"Amos Diggory is a ponce and a shit chaser!" Sirius Black yelled from below them, startling Hermione, who quite understandably hadn't even been aware that he had been listening to her conversation. She flushed involuntarily, a reaction which Dorcas and Lily both took note of, sharing a knowing look over Hermione's head.

"Well, now we know how Black feels on the subject, anyway," Dorcas murmured, amusement thick in her voice.

* * *

There was a full moon on Halloween that year, a happenstance which the majority of Hogwarts seemed to regard as a particularly delicious bit of spooky serendipity. People had been howling gleefully in the corridors all day, joking blithely about werewolf attacks and warning people in staged, faux-frightened whispers to keep clear of the Forbidden Forrest that night. For a select set of Gryffindor fourth years however, Remus Lupin foremost among them, the timing of the full moon was hardly cause for such jovial celebration.

"It's rotten luck," Lily muttered to Hermione over the top of the spitting dart flower they were tending to in Herbology that day, flicking her eyes towards the table which the Marauders were occupying across the room. Remus was looking understandably wan.

Hermione nodded in agreement. "We should go visit him in the Hospital Wing tomorrow," she suggested quietly, clipping the end of a damaged leaf from their dart flower, prompting it to snarl viciously in protest. "We can save some Halloween chocolates for him."

Lily brightened somewhat. "That's a good idea," she enthused. "I think chocolate even has some healing properties!"

"It does, "Hermione confirmed with a smile, remembering a time when a much older version of Remus had dispensed it among she and her friends on the school train, in the aftermath of their horrible encounter with the dementor.

"Are you lot plotting to bring chocolate to boys without me?" Dorcas wanted to know, having returned from the supply station with a fresh watering can and catching some of the tail end of Lily and Hermione's conversation.

"So what if we are?" Lily challenged, arching a thin, red eyebrow.

"Then I would applaud you for your initiative," Dorcas said laughingly. "I may even have to steal that idea for myself," she mused, looking contemplative for a brief moment before turning her attention to Hermione. "So, who are the lucky targets?"

"No one you know," Hermione demurred, not wanting to give up anything about Remus.

Dorcas widened her eyes, looking dangerously anticipatory. "Oh, _really_ ," she said. "You know, I'm not sure that I wholly believe you, Hermione." She cocked her head thoughtfully to the side. "Hmm, let me think. Yes, I have an idea of just whom you might be giving chocolate to. _Black_!" the blonde declared triumphantly, as though she'd just correctly solved the prize puzzle on a muggle, TV game show.

Lily choked on a laugh, coughing in a hasty but unsuccessful attempt to cover it. Hermione paused in her clipping, decidedly less amused at this suggestion than Lily was. "Why on earth would you think that?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"Didn't Black get you chocolates for Christmas last year?" Dorcas inquired innocently. "I simply thought you might be thinking of returning the favor."

Hermione sighed, taking up her clippers once more. "I don't know why you even remember that, but _no_. Sorry to disappoint you Dorcas, but the chocolates are not for Black, and I have no plans to gift him with that or anything else in the near future," she said emphatically.

"So we're not ruling out the distant future then?" Dorcas rejoined, tenacious as ever. Hermione threw a clod of dirt at her.

* * *

"Why are you blushing?" Sirius asked curiously, taking in Remus' suddenly flushed complexion. Given that his friend had been deathly pale all day in anticipation of the full moon, his newly red cheeks were especially noticeable.

Sirius' question attracted the attention of James, who had been staring at Evans, but now spun eagerly to face them. "Are you blushing, Rem?" he asked interestedly, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"I'm not blushing," Remus denied, pushing the pot containing their spitting dart flower towards the middle of the table, having finished pruning it.

"Did you get Hermione a Christmas present last year?" the werewolf demanded abruptly of Sirius.

"Yeah," the black haired boy admitted with a shrug, surprised at the seemingly random change in topic. How did Remus even know about that anyway, he wondered. Sirius narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the table Granger was sharing with Evans and Meadows on the other side of the greenhouse. Were they talking about it or something? It wasn't exactly a secret how fucking sensitive Moony's hearing was this close to the moon. Remus was always managing to 'inadvertently' overhear things, an ability which had led to some very interesting intel over the years, Sirius recalled fondly. He glanced back at his friends, startled by the blatant curiosity he saw on all three of their faces.

Was it really so shocking that he'd gotten Granger a Christmas present? It'd just been a bit of chocolate. Muggle chocolate which had been something of a bitch to get if Sirius were honest, but still. He'd felt bad for yelling at her about Remus, and the chocolate had been a way to apologize without having to actually admit to Granger's face that she might have been right.

"You got her something, didn't you?" he asked Remus, somewhat defensively.

"Yes," the other boy said tightly, setting his pruning shears down on the table with a rather loud clang. "Because we're _friends_. You and Hermione aren't friends Sirius."

Sirius shrugged again, mystified as to why this was apparently such a big deal. Moony did have a tendency to get unreasonably grumpy about the most innocuous shit near the full moon though.

"It was more of a bribe than a present, actually," he explained, which was true. He'd even said as much to Granger in the note he'd sent along with it. "She was mad at me, so I got her some chocolate. It wasn't a big deal."

Judging by the way Peter was now gaping at him stupidly, this explanation had had the opposite effect of that which Sirius had intended. "Granger was mad at you and you got her a _present_ ," Peter said incredulously, as though this were significantly damning. "Like she's your _girlfriend_ or something," he went on, oblivious to Sirius' discomfort. "I thought Rebecca Forrester was your girlfriend."

Sirius sighed tiredly. "Rebecca Forrester isn't my girlfriend, Pete, we're just…hanging out," he supplied awkwardly.

James snorted. "If by 'hanging out' you mean shagging in broom cupboards."

Sirius socked him hard on the arm.

Meanwhile, Peter's had eyes widened to comical proportions as result of this latest bit of information, which he had apparently only just been made privy to by James. "Are you really shagging Rebecca Forrester, Sirius?" he asked, voice tinged with awe in a way that made the other boy feel faintly embarrassed. "She's a sixth year!"

Sirius shrugged noncommittally. He'd been doing a lot of shrugging today, he realized absently. He must have been in a particularly uncommunicative mood, even for him. This conversation was certainly putting him in one, at any rate. Sirius hadn't actually shagged Rebecca yet, but he suspected things were headed that way, which was a development he wasn't exactly dreading or anything. He liked the sixth year Ravenclaw well enough. Rebecca was pretty. She smelled good, and she had long, silky brown hair, and a great set of tits that he'd had ample time to get acquainted with by now.

Plus, she was muggle born, a fact which would have sent both his parents into fits of apoplexy if they ever found out Sirius had so much as gone anywhere near her. He recognized that that was probably a pretty fucked up reason to want to shag someone, but he couldn't deny the appeal of it. And it's not like Rebecca's blood status was the only reason he wanted to have sex with her, Sirius told himself. There were a lot of other reasons too; like her legs and her arse, for instance. But just because he and Rebecca were well on their way to shagging, didn't mean they were _dating_ or anything. They were just having fun with each other. Not everyone was so high mindedly devoted to saving themselves for true love. He wasn't James, for Godric's sake.

"Rebecca definitely isn't my girlfriend," Sirius said firmly, not quite sure why he felt the need to make that so, emphatically clear.

* * *

"I might try straightening my hair," Hermione announced impulsively at breakfast one morning, fingering her wild locks tentatively.

"Ooooh!" Dorcas squealed with predictable excitement, slamming down her pumpkin juice and scooting eagerly toward Hermione. "I know just the spell!" she gushed. "Not that I don't love your naturally curly hair, babe, you know that I do. But it can be fun to mix it up every once and a while!"

"I just want to try it," Hermione admitted with a smile, unsure of why exactly she was feeling the need to give into such a frivolous impulse, but willing to indulge herself nonetheless.

"We'll do it tonight," Dorcas declared grandly. "That way you can surprise everyone with it at breakfast tomorrow morning. You know, to maximize the drama. I am _all_ about maximizing the drama!"

"We know," Lily said dryly, and Hermione laughed. Dorcas hardly needed to explain her theatrical tendencies at this point, everyone was already very much aware of them.

"Just leave everything to me," the blonde instructed Hermione confidently, ignoring Lily's quip completely.

* * *

"What's wrong with your hair?"

Hermione glanced up from her Transfiguration essay. She didn't often do homework at the breakfast table, but she did sometimes like to work on Transfiguration there as she nursed her morning coffee. Over the years, the muggle born witch had found that the addition of stimulants tended to help when it came to completing Professor McGonagall's tougher assignments. Hermione was dismayed to find that she was now being rudely disrupted from this task via the sudden, aggravating materialization of the Marauders. Among this most unwelcome surprise was Sirius Black, who was staring at her with an air of dismayed confusion.

"Excuse me?" she said, raising an eyebrow at him in a way that indicated he was treading on very dangerous ground. Black though, was apparently oblivious to this warning.

"It's all…flat," he said, gesturing to her newly sleek hair, which Dorcas had spent the previous night painstakingly straightening. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw James guffaw at his friend's lack of tact, while Remus simply shook his head in apparent hopelessness.

"Excuse me?" Hermione repeated, pausing to share a deeply annoyed look with Lily. The stupidity and insensitivity of boys, it seemed, was timeless and unceasing.

"What have you done to it?" Black was asking now, heedless of all apparent warning signs, be they verbal or nonverbal, that such a question was a bad idea.

Hermione shared another look with Lily, who appeared just as appalled on her behalf at Sirius' invasiveness as Hermione felt.

"Not that I'm obligated to inform you of anything Black," she sniffed, "but I've used a smoothing tonic on it. Thought I'd try something different."

"I liked it better before," Sirius informed her guilelessly. "When it was all," he paused and made a vague gesture around his own head. "Wild."

Hermione leveled him with a severe look. "I see," she said, voice perilously thin. "Well, Black, I really don't believe that it's any of your concern what I do with my hair, so if you could kindly bugger off it would be much appreciated."

Black opened his mouth as though to reply, but Remus grabbed his arm before he could.

"Sirius, you arse, shut up, for Godric's sake!" Remus hissed through his teeth, dragging Sirius forcefully down the length of the table to what was perhaps a further distance away than the Marauders might have usually sat. James, laughing uproariously, followed after them, Pettigrew trailing along in his wake.

Lily and Hermione stared at the retreating backs of the Marauders, varying degrees of annoyance and amusement (in the case of Lily) on their faces.

"Well that was…interesting," Lily mused once the boys were sufficiently out of ear shot, Remus and his enhanced abilities included.

"Interesting! Unbelievably rude, more like!" Hermione huffed, slamming her quill down rather sharply on her Transfiguration essay and tearing a hole in the parchment without noticing.

"Yes, that as well," Lily acknowledged, setting her coffee mug down in a much more measured manner than Hermione had done with her writing implement.

"Where does Black get off? Making comments about my hair!" Hermione fumed, choosing to ignore Lily's growing amusement for the time being in favor of ranting.

"He had no business," Lily agreed, attempting to be righteously indignant on behalf of her friend. She was unable, however, to restrain a small giggle.

"Lily!" Hermione protested. "This is not funny!"

"Why don't you look at it as a learning opportunity?" Lily suggested.

"A learning opportunity?" Hermione eyed her friend skeptically.

"Yes," Lily said, clearly struggling not to laugh. "Now we've learnt that Black prefers your hair in its natural…. _wild state_."

At this point, the petite redhead was unable to contain herself any longer, collapsing into a fit of giggles all over the breakfast table, much to Hermione's consternation.

"Oh, shut up, Lily!" she said, picking up her quill and chucking it at the other girl.

As she watched Lily laugh, the usually curly haired witch found herself wishing it weren't so ingrained in Dorcas to sleep in on the weekends. She was fairly confident that the blonde would have seen fit to defend her own handiwork much more vigorously than Lily had. Hermione was faintly surprised that Dorcas wasn't here anyway, regular sleep schedule notwithstanding. She wouldn't have thought that the blonde would want to miss her so-called 'grand entrance', but she supposed that some habits were harder to break than others. Frankly, Hermione doubted that anything short of rabid, mermaids would have been able to drag Dorcas from her bed before 10am on a Sunday morning, so she really couldn't be too put out by the blonde's current absence. Hermione and Lily's mutual habit of rising early on the weekends was one their dormmate had addressed with them before as, quote, 'unnecessarily masochistic'.

"You're hair does look nice though," Lily informed her sincerely, once her giggle fit had subsided.

"Really?" Hemione asked, patting self-consciously at her temporarily sleek mane, unused to the lack of bulk beneath her fingertips. It's absence was vaguely disconcerting.

"It really does," Lily assured her. "Although I might like it slightly, just _slightly_ , mind you, better the way it is normally. Don't tell Dorcas." The red head appeared mildly worried that she may have offended Hermione with her opinion, adding hastily. "You just don't look entirely like _my_ Hermione without your usual set of curls," Lily nudged her companionably. "I miss them a bit is all, though not as much as Black does, apparently."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, choosing to ignore her friends teasing. She did like her hair this way, whatever anyone else may have thought. Dorcas was right, it was fun to change things up every once in a while. Hermione just wasn't sure how often she'd be letting the blonde enact this particular change on her person. She might have missed her curls a bit too.

* * *

"Is that Granger?" James Potter said curiously, prompting Sirius, who had been sprawled languidly on his back along one of the wooden benches of the near empty quidditch stands, to sit up abruptly. His motion sent the book which had been resting forgotten on his chest tumbling to the ground. Remus shot him an unnecessarily judgmental look for this, but Sirius ignored him, leaning forward to peer down at what he'd thought was the utterly deserted pitch.

James was right, he realized, it _was_ Granger, her unmistakable set of hair, which was thankfully back to normal, serving to identify her from a distance, even pulled back as it currently was. She was situated at the north edge of the field wearing a ridiculous pair of fluorescent pink, jogging shorts and a mismatched, light grey jumper. Sirius, along with the rest of his fellow Marauders, gaped at her with wide eyes as she proceeded to twist her body to the side, arch an arm over her head, and begin engaging in what was evidently some sort of stretching regimen. The stretching lasted only a few moments (though certainly long enough to make an indelible impression on Sirius) before she peeled her jumper over her head, revealing a white vest beneath. Granger then tied her discarded jumper sloppily around her waist, and began jogging at a moderate pace around the outside of the pitch.

"What is she doing?" Peter whispered, as though if he talked any louder Granger might hear him and be offended.

"Running, I guess," Sirius said stupidly, and Remus snorted with amusement. Sirius elbowed him blindly in the side as retaliation, his eyes remaining glued on Granger's exposed legs as she continued her circuit around the pitch.

"But why?" Peter wanted to know, as though exercise of any sort were a completely foreign concept to him, which for all Sirius knew, it may have been.

James shrugged. "Why do we play quidditch?" he asked rhetorically.

"Hermione likes to run," Remus explained patiently, shutting his book, having apparently given up on any hope of studying without being pestered once and for all. "She says it helps to clear her head."

Peter squinted at her, eyeing her shorts and vest, the combination of which was revealing much more than Granger's typical attire.

"Do you think she'll get cold?" he wondered. "It's nearly mid-November."

"She's exercising, Peter, it tends to generate heat, I think she'll be fine," Sirius said distractedly, watching, captivated, as Granger lifted her arms to readjust her ponytail, the movement arching her back slightly and pushing her chest forward, emphasizing her breasts. His mouth felt suddenly dry.

"Well it certainly seems to be generating some heat up here," Remus observed wryly, looking pointedly at his friends, all three of whom were still staring at Hermione with varying degrees of awe, and quite possibly lust.

"Don't go acting all high and mighty just because you're friends with her, Moony, there's no way you're immune to this," James shot back at him, and Remus shifted uncomfortably as the accusation landed, a light blush suffusing his cheeks.

"I don't think she knows she has an audience," he said quietly, and then, more cuttingly, to James, "Besides, I thought you only had eyes for Evans'."

James sat up suddenly straighter, tearing his eyes from Granger momentarily in order peer hopefully at Remus. "Do you think if I suggested it Evans might take up jogging as well?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Somehow I doubt it," he said dismissively. "And lighten up about Granger, Rem, she's in a public place, we're not doing anything wrong."

"Fine," Remus said pissily, shoving his charms text into his book bag and standing up. "I'll leave you lot to it then. I'm going to the library."

He stalked off, leaving a trio of bewildered Marauders in his wake.

"What's with him?" Peter asked. James and Sirius shrugged simultaneously, quickly returning their attention to Granger, who was now set to pass directly beneath them.

Sirius zeroed in unashamedly on her top half as she ran by, his view from above affording him the irresistible opportunity to look directly down her vest, watching her breasts bounce up and down as she jogged. It was only because he was so focused on them in that moment that he even noticed the distinctive, red lines of Granger's scar peeking out from between them. He'd been so distracted by her legs up till now that it was only belatedly occurring to him that, with the cut of her top, Granger's scar was currently exposed. Either Remus was right, and she really didn't know she had an audience, or Granger had gotten a lot more comfortable in her own skin than she'd been last fall during their detention.

Her scar wasn't as obvious as Sirius remembered it though. She must have been wearing some kind of special bra that pushed her breasts together, he decided, making it harder to see. Either that, or her chest had gotten bigger. Maybe it was both, Sirius mused, thinking he'd have to investigate further in order to be able to tell for certain, though he wasn't exactly sure how he was going to manage to do that. He glanced sideways at James and Peter, finding that he was suddenly mildly put out over their continued, rapt attention on Granger. Sirius frowned, attempting to ignore the unwanted pulse of possessiveness which shot through him at the thought of either James or Peter seeing either Granger's scar _or_ her delectably bouncing breasts.

* * *

Hermione was feeling very exposed, and not just because she'd been forced to borrow a pair of garish, fuchsia running shorts from Dorcas when she'd realized all of her own pairs were currently off being laundered. The main reason for her current fit of self-consciousness was the innocuous, white vest she had chosen to pair with her considerably louder shorts in an effort to balance them out. She'd hesitated over the top, not because of its plainness (Hermione usually wasn't one to dress in articles of clothing that were overly flashy anyway, hence her discomfort with the borrowed shorts), but because of its cut.

"Just wear it, Hermione," Dorcas had advised her back in their dorm, eventually snatching the vest impatiently from the open drawer of Hermione's bureau and thrusting it in the other girl's face. "There aren't any quidditch practices scheduled today, and it's the middle of bloody November. No one else is going to be down on the pitch!"

Hermione had worried her lip in response, and sensing her friend's continued apprehension, Dorcas' features had softened marginally. "It'll be okay, babe," the blonde had counseled, reaching out to squeeze her arm. "Even if someone _does_ see you I doubt they'll be paying much attention to your scar," she'd paused at that point to run her eyes very obviously up and down Hermione's exposed legs. "Not in those shorts anyway."

Hermione had nodded, taking the vest from Dorcas and shrugging it on, layering a jumper over the top of it for the time being, shrouding herself in one last defensive layer, albeit a temporary one. While it was true that she'd grown much more comfortable in the past year with Lily, Dorcas, and even Mary, seeing her scar, Hermione had yet to venture anywhere beyond the comfortable confines of the girls' shared dorm room with the mark on display. Until now that is. Well, almost.

She kept her jumper on while she did some cursory stretching in anticipation of her jog, knowing that she'd be chilly throughout her warm up if she removed it prematurely. The ideal weather for running outside, in Hermione's opinion at least, was when the air temperature was somewhere between 5 and 15 degrees Celsius. She loathed to sweat, and the current mid-November chill was providing the exact right conditions under which for her to exercise without ending up a disgusting mess. After one last touch of her toes, Hermione stood, shrugging off her jumper with forced casualness and securing it around her waist. Taking a deep breath, she set out at a light jog.

It took her slightly longer than usual to settle into the rhythm of her run, but once she did, Hermione found that it was a useful distraction from her current anxiety regarding her exposed scar. She was being silly, the muggle born witch chastised herself as she rounded the north corner of the pitch. No one was even here to see her, much less take notice of her scar. And even if they had been, she needed to get used to people catching glimpses of it anyway. It wasn't as if she could wear high necked sweaters all the time. This was good practice, Hermione told herself. Jogging around the empty quidditch pitch, on this dreary, weekend afternoon when she knew that she was highly unlikely to actually encounter anyone, was the perfect way to acclimatize herself to the idea of people seeing her scar. People who weren't her dormmates or Sirius Black, that is.

Running also had the effect of quieting her mind, and since arriving in the 1970's, Hermione had come to rely on it more and more for just that purpose. And today she was in definite need of a distraction. She'd spent the morning holed up in the library surreptitiously working on her two secret pet projects, splitting her time between Hagrid's case and Sirius Black's. Ultimately she'd gotten nowhere with either of them, though she had learned a great deal of highly esoteric information about Britain's Wizarding legal system, most of which was very interesting, and none of which, unfortunately, was very helpful.

Hermione knew that she'd hit a wall with Black's case especially, and if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she'd probably been running up against it since some time last year. There was only so much research you could do into a potential miscarriage of justice which hadn't yet occurred. Hermione was finally coming to accept that fact, frustrating as it may have been. She would just have to resign herself to indefinite uncertainty when it came to Sirius Black.

All Hermione really knew was that there were a number of things about his case which she just didn't think quite fit. She had already dug up any and all records which she thought might possibly be relevant, and beyond that, she wasn't sure there was much else she could do to assuage her suspicions. She would just have to wait, and hope that some miraculously illuminating bit of insight eventually revealed itself to her. In the meantime though, Hermione hadn't yet completely given up on Hagrid. At least most everything which had happened to him had already _happened_ , she reasoned. Unfortunately that didn't change the fact that, at the moment, she was still hopelessly stalled out as to what to do about any of it. And so, in an attempt to excise some of her feelings of helpless frustration, Hermione ran.

* * *

1974's iteration of a Defense Professor was a nervous seeming man named Professor Monk. Their previous instructor, Professor Snider, whom Hermione had actually thought quite decent, had left unexpectedly at the end of the previous term for reasons that remained unclear. Despite a dearth of actual information regarding his departure, the Hogwart's rumor mill had certainly been happy to supply many an explanation for his sudden absence, the most outlandish theory being that he'd taken up with a vampire woman, had a love child with her, and subsequently moved to Romania. Hermione didn't put much stock in these tales, much of which she had a feeling you could source straight back to the Marauder's, but she could admit that they were funny. In any case, Snider was gone, and they now had to contend with Professor Monk.

Today he had split them in to pairs in order to practice defensive spells; a tame form of school sanctioned dueling which would hopefully not end up anything like the disastrous Dueling Club of Hermione's 2nd year. Monk was nowhere near as stupid as Lockhart though, whose brand of oblivious idiocy would have been hard to match even before he'd been hit with his own backfiring memory charm. Monk may have been fairly new, but he was already astute enough not to pair them up across house lines. Given that the fourth year Gryffindors had Defense with the Slytherin's that year, this was an exceedingly wise choice. Hermione ended up paired with Mary, and she had to fight to push back the instinctual, uneasy, awkwardness which now swelled in her whenever she was around the girl.

The person whom Mary had morphed into over the past year, someone who disappeared with no explanation for prolonged amounts of time and made bizarrely cryptic statements when she did happen to be around, reminded Hermione somewhat of Luna Lovegood, except with sinister undertones the blonde had lacked. Swallowing her discomfort as best she could, Hermione began trading spells with Mary, deflecting the brunettes slew of minor jinxes and hexes with the variety of assigned defensive spells they were meant to be working on. They traded places several times, switching between blocking and casting, allowing them both to practice.

It was once again Hermione's turn at defending against Mary, but she had allowed her attention to lapse somewhat, finding herself distracted by the duel between Lily and Black happening across the room. What had begun as a practice exercise between her friend and the Marauder had gradually morphed into a mutual exchange of increasingly creative hexes. Judging by the near manic smiles on Lily and Black's faces, this was a development both parties seemed to be relishing. Hermione was watching with interest as Lily prepared to launch what looked like a bat bogey hex at Black, when she sensed an unexpected movement from Mary out of the corner of her eye.

"Densaugeo!" she heard brunette hiss.

Hermione spun to face her, raising her wand arm belatedly in an attempt to block the spell which had been sent flying her way by her dormmate. But it was too late, and the beam of orange tinted light hit her squarely in her slightly parted mouth. Hermione raised her hands instinctually to her face, registering it with horror as she felt her two front teeth beginning to rapidly elongate. The pace of their growth was so alarmingly swift that her upper central incisors, already somewhat overlarge, had quickly descended below her jawbone. Hermione clutched helplessly at her face, cradling her jaw in a vain attempt to contain her teeth and keep them from further expanding. The whole class was now staring at her, shock and grotesque fascination plain in most of their expressions, and Hermione felt tears beginning to streak down her cheeks as her classmates watched.

"Hermione!" Lily cried out in alarm, dashing towards her and hastily wrapping a shielding arm around her friend's shaking form. Dorcas rushed over as well, taking up a protective stance in front of Hermione and proceeding to glare at the assembled crowd of onlooking students, as though daring any one of them to make so much as a vaguely unkind comment.

Mary stood slightly apart from the group that had formed around the agonized muggle born, observing everything in what appeared to be a detached manner. She hadn't made even a pretense of attempting to come to her aid, Hermione realized distantly. And while it may have been just the clouding effect of her tears, the distressed witch could have sworn that, just beneath Mary's indifferent surface, there was a gleam of what looked almost like triumph in the brunettes dark eyes.

"What's this now, what's this?" Professor Monk inquired, having finally made his way over to see what all of the unfolding commotion was about.

"It's Hermione, Professor. Her teeth," Lily explained, gesturing evidentiarily at Hermione's incisors, which were now down to her mid chest.

"I don't see any difference," Hermione heard Snape mutter from her right, his silky voice unmistakable. She choked on a sob as she heard sporadic laughter erupt from her surrounding classmates in response to his insult.

"Severus!" Lily gasped, sounding shocked and utterly horrified by her Slytherin friend's words. She tightened her hold on Hermione, shooting Snape a deadly look that promised she would be addressing this with him later. He shrugged defiantly, but eventually refocused his eyes on the floor in response to Lily's continued glare.

"She needs the hospital wing," Dorcas interjected into the tense silence, turning imploringly to Professor Monk, who had been looking rather befuddled as to what to do up until that point.

"Yes, alright, alright. You girls accompany her," he allowed after a beat. "The rest of us will continue on with the lesson. Go on."

He made a sort of shooing gesture at the trio, and that was all the permission Lily and Dorcas needed. Flanking Hermione on either side, they hurriedly ushered her from the Defense classroom, intent on escorting her as quickly as possible to the Hospital Wing.

* * *

Hermione emerged from her ordeal in Defense with both an intensified wariness of Mary, and a normalized, newly even set of perfectly proportional, upper central incisors. So at least she'd gotten something out of the whole humiliating spectacle, she reflected dispassionately. In another form of consolation, Hermione took what was perhaps an undue amount of pleasure in the fact that Severus Snape was unable to sit properly for a full week following the Defense incident, due to a persistent case of painful boils which had inconveniently taken up residence on his backside. Lily was so angry with the Slytherin over what he had said about Hermione's teeth that she hadn't even yelled at the Marauder's for it.

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _Note; So I actually do look up full moon records whenever I reference them in this story (which is sometimes inconvenient for my plans lol) and there was one on September 1_ _st_ _1974, which would have made for a horrible first day of school for Remus, the poor thing. October had TWO full moons that year, one on October 1_ _st_ _(lining up with the opening quidditch match) and yes, one on Halloween. Thought I'd mention it since full moons play kind of a heavy role in this chap._

 _Re the voyeuristic jogging scene: I'm not condoning that kind of behavior just because I'm writing about it and having characters I love participate in it. The Marauders are imperfect, 14/15 year old boys in the 70's, and I don't think it's unrealistic behavior on their part. But that doesn't mean it's laudable or anything. A similar caveat applies to how I write about Sirius and his fetishization of violence in this story, which I'd definitely argue has basis in canon :)_

 _Also, I hope that the way I'm writing Dumbledore and Hermione's evolving opinion of him doesn't come off as bashing. I *love* Dumbledore as a character so much, but the man's a politician. He's flawed and he's manipulative, but that's what makes him interesting ;)_

 _PLEASE REVIEW!_


	19. On the Origin and Meaning of Nicknames

_**AN:**_ _It's not quite relevant yet, but as a reminder, Hermione traveled back in time before Harry got the Marauder's Map from the Weasley twins, so she doesn't know about it. Also, thank you so so much for all the favs, follows and reviews, I can't believe how much love this story has gotten and all without smut (it is coming, never fear, although I do like slow burn, but we will get there folks)!_

 _So excited to be done with this and post, I fucking hate proofreading, necessary evil though it is. As always, you can let me know if you spot any horrible mistakes!_

 ** _Also to clarify, Hermione and Sirius are both 15 in this chapter, per their canonical birthdays, and in their fourth year._**

* * *

Chapter 19: On the Origin and Meaning of Nicknames

"What kind of animal do you think you'll end up as?" Peter wondered, pushing aside the book on Animagi theory they'd stolen from Granger (alright, that Sirius had stolen) and leaning eagerly towards James and Sirius. The three boys had temporarily abandoned their inner animal discovery meditation in favor of retreating to the far less difficult, but also far less accurate, realm of idle speculation.

"Something noble," James said immediately.

"How is it possible for an animal to be noble, exactly?" Sirius wanted to know. "What sort of animal is noble?"

"A turtle!" Peter suggested, only to be met with perplexed looks from both of his friends. "What?" he protested. "Turtles are cool! And they live a really long time!"

"Great, Pete," Sirius said sarcastically. "You can be a turtle. That'll be real useful when Moony decides to eat you and you're able to make a really quick getaway."

"Fine," Peter huffed, folding his arms defensively across his chest. "What do you want to be then, Sirius, if you're so smart?"

The black haired boy leant back on his elbows, giving serious thought to question. "Something big, like a predator," he decided on eventually, drawing an eyeroll from Peter and snort of amusement from James. "Fuck off, it's not an ego thing. At least one of us has to be big enough to be able to keep Moony in line," he pointed out practically.

A sudden, wicked gleam of mirth lit up Sirius' eyes as a new, very promising thought occurred to him. "Wouldn't it be funny if one of us was a wolf?"

"Yeah, that'll happen," James predicted with a laugh, Peter snickering along with him.

When Sirius successfully discovered his future animagus form only a few weeks later, he would be unbearably smug about just how close he'd been to being right. While his inner animal may not have been an actual wolf, it was still decidedly canine in form. Not to mention _huge_. If the vision in his meditation was accurate, he was going to look a lot more like a black bear than somebody's lost house pet when he finally did transform. Actually, Sirius realized with mounting excitement, he was going to look like a fucking Grim.

* * *

Snow swirled chaotically about Hermione as she made her way down to Hagrid's for their weekly tea, the trek seeming longer than usual in the midst of the day's particular, harsh, wintry elements. She finally arrived at the cottage, calling out a greeting to its owner as she stomped snow from her boots and set about unwinding her scarf in the entryway.

"I'm jus' stokin' up the fire some, lass, but I've got tea on!" came the booming reply.

Having finished shedding her winter layers, Hermione made her way over to the stovetop, retrieving her favorite mug from the cupboard above and helping herself to some tea. She could certainly use a bit of warming up, the curly haired witch reflected, her walk down from the castle having managed to chill her considerably. Hagrid emerged from the den just as she was adding her customary dash of milk to her tea, the spot of soot on his face making Hermione smile as he gestured for her to have a seat.

They were on their second cup of tea each, and in the midst of their usual, pleasant catch up, when her guardian's relaxed visage suddenly morphed, his large features settling into an expression that was atypically serious for the man.

"Is something wrong?" Hermione asked, setting down her cup of tea.

Hagrid's eyes shifted nervously. "Not wrong, exactly, lass. I've somethin' to tell yeh is all."

"What is it Hagrid?"

He let out a large sigh. "Alright, I've put it off long enough now, no use waitin' any more now yer here. I'm goin' on a trip. Over Christmas," he explained, scratching at the back of his neck. "And mind yeh, lass, it's not fer pleasure, so don' go thinkin' I can take yeh with me, much as I might like ta."

Hermione swallowed. "Where are you going?"

"Up north," Hagrid said vaguely. "It's somethin' of a reconnaissance mission for Dumbledore, can' say more than that I'm afraid."

"Oh," Hermione said dully, cold uncomfortable tendrils of worry beginning to expand unwelcomely throughout her chest cavity. "How long will you be gone?"

"Not more than a couple o' weeks," Hagrid assured her, reaching out to pat her hand in an exaggeratedly delicate manner so as not to inadvertently hurt her. "Shouldna' be more than jus' over the holiday break. I'm sorry to leave ya alone at Christmas, lass, knowin' how hard it was for yeh las' year an' all, but Dumbledore's countin' on me."

Hermione nodded mutely, feeling unexpectedly as though she might cry. It wasn't as though she didn't think Hagrid could take care of himself, she knew that he was more than capable of that, but she couldn't help but worry for her guardian nonetheless. He had become so important to her since her arrival in this time, like family, really; and Hermione had already been forced to endure the loss of far too much of her family. The young witch honestly wasn't sure she could bear having anyone else taken from her.

"Buck up now, lass, I know yeh know that I can take care o' meself," Hagrid said, picking up handily on Hermione's emotional state and partially echoing her thoughts. "It'll be a quick mission, yeh'll see. I'll be back before yeh know it."

Hermione forced a brittle smile, squeezing Hagrid's large hand with her own small one. "Yes, I know," she said, silently consoling herself with the rationale that Hagrid had, in all likelihood, been sent on this mission before, in the timeline which she had previously occupied. He'd obviously managed to come through it just fine then, and it wasn't going to be any different this time just because she would be here at Hogwarts waiting anxiously for his safe return along with Dumbledore. Everything would be fine, Hermine told herself, tamping down forcibly on her fears. She would just have to resign herself to a lonelier than expected Christmas this year.

"Why does Professor Dumbledore have to send you though?" the muggle born queried, only slightly petulantly.

"Well, its concernin' somethin' that yeh might say is in my particular area of expertise," Hagrid offered.

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion."What do you mean?"

Her guardian gave a lengthy pause before speaking. "I dunno if yeh've managed ter pick up on this at all yet, lass, but I'm part giant," he said wryly, a tinge of self-deprecating amusement in his tone as he relayed this hardly surprising bit of information.

Hagrid was obviously aware that Hermione had likely guessed at this particularly obvious component of his lineage, even though the two of them had never discussed it directly before. Despite Hagrid's front of casual bravado though, Hermione thought she detected a strain of self-conscious apprehension on the large man's face as awaited her response, his uncertainty apparent even through the not-insignificant shield of his large, bushy, black beard.

"Er, yes," she admitted, smiling at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, and one which conveyed that she wasn't bothered by the aspect of himself which he'd just revealed to her. "I did suspect that something like that might be the case."

"Aye," Hagrid nodded. "On me mum's side. So that's why Dumbledore's sendin' me, specifically. Thinks I might be able ta make some headway with them, or at least get some information."

"But giants, Hagrid? That'll be terribly dangerous!" Hermione worried, her voice slightly frantic.

Her guardian raised a bushy eyebrow at her. " Well I'm half giant, aren't I? Am I dangerous, then, lass?"

"You certainly could be if you wanted to!"

Hagrid huffed out a laugh, and then nodded in satisfaction. "Right yeh are, Hermione. As yeh know, I can take care o' meself. And Dumbledore knows what he's sendin' me into. He's not settin' me up fer failure." Hermione nodded reluctantly. She may not have possessed the blind faith in the Headmaster which she had when she was younger, but she did believe that.

"Are you at least permitted you to use magic?" she demanded.

"Aye," Hagrid affirmed, and Hermione let out a slight sigh of relief. Her worry remained though, having been nowhere near eradicated by this single assurance.

"Mind yeh," Hagrid continued, "the giants won' like it, so I'll try ta avoid magic in front of 'em if I can. But I've permission to act as I need ta. I doubt it'll come ta tha' though," he told her sincerely, sensing his charge's continued worry. "It's early days yet, lass, this is jus' a scouting mission."

"Early days yet of _what_?" Hermione asked with a frown, talking more to herself than to her guardian. Truthfully, she was mildly shocked he'd made even an oblique reference to the coming war in front of her.

Hagrid wasn't done surprising her yet though. He leveled her with a flat look. "Don't play daft, Hermione, it'll do ya no good. Yer a smart girl, an' I know it better than most. I know yeh read the papers, an' I know yeh can read the signs. There's no sense in talkin' around it if we both know what's comin', and what's comin' is a war."

Hermione swallowed tightly. At 15 years old, she appreciated being spoken too like an adult, even if the content of her current conversation was deeply unpleasant. Hagrid was right. It did neither of them any good to deny the current political climate and what it was already morphing into to.

"When do you leave?" she asked.

Hagrid pushed his tea cup forward, the brew having gone cold. "The 18th."

"Please be careful," Hermione implored him, clutching at her own mug of now chilled tea.

Hagrid nodded. "I will, lass," he promised, reaching forward to gently pry Hermione's tea mug from her hands, giving them a brief squeeze as he did so. "Now then, that's enough about my mission," he declared, standing from the table. "I'm needin' a fresh cup o' tea, an' I reckon you are as well."

He busied himself at the stove for a few moments, allowing Hermione some time to compose both herself and her thoughts, before rejoining her with two large mugs of freshly hot piping tea in hand. From there, they settled gradually back into a normal pattern of discussion, and Hermione found herself comforted by the familiarity of the ritual despite the worry which still lurked in the back of her mind. When it came time to leave, she made sure to hug Hagrid extra tightly, and if she held on to him for a noticeably longer amount of time than usual, neither of them mentioned it.

* * *

While the prospect of a Christmas spent totally alone wasn't one Hermione had been overly looking forward to, she did have to admit that it had its upsides; namely all the blessedly uninterrupted hours of studying she'd been able to get in so far. And in the _common room_ as well, which was usually far too chaotic of an environment in which to accomplish anything. She was able to camp out for hours at a time, spreading her books and papers uninhibitedly across the premium table directly in front of the fire, taking up the whole space without a single ounce of guilt, and without having had to fight for it either. The only other person ever in the common room was Black, who, like her, was stranded at Hogwarts for Christmas that year. Unlike her, he did not seem to appreciate this for the opportunity it was to catch up on all of his homework and engage in undisturbed studying.

Hermione eyed him furtively over the top of a History of Magic essay which wasn't due till well into next month. Actually, she'd noticed that Black _had_ been doing quite a lot of reading over the break, just not, she suspected, of the school sanctioned variety. Ostensibly, he had been absorbed with something called _'The Art of Dream Interpretation'_ but Hermione knew for a fact that Black and Potter had both dropped Divination that year in favor of Arithmancy, and she was positive that Black had magicked up a fake cover over the top of his book in order to conceal whatever it was that he was actually reading. Despite herself, she found that she was very curious about just what it was Black was really doing. The amount of notes he was taking was highly suspicious.

Black, as a general rule, was not an overly avid note taker, even when it came to the subjects he clearly liked, such as Defense and Transfiguration. Most of Hogwarts' course work seemed to come quite easily to him, almost unfairly so, as Lily would gladly tell you, given the pronounced lack of effort which he usually appeared to put into it. Hermione knew that Black would only be concentrating so much on something which he'd arbitrarily deemed interesting, and she was sure whatever it was couldn't possibly be school related.

For all she knew, Black was working on something highly dangerous and potentially illegal. He and Potter were far too much like Hermione's memory of the Weasley twins for comfort, and she definitely wouldn't put it past the two of them to be up to something of a dubious nature. Unfortunately for her, every time she had subtly tried to get a look at the contents of Black's notes, he managed to hide them away from her before she could so much as catch a glimpse of anything. He obviously knew what she was after, and seemed to find thwarting her efforts an amusing endeavor, much to Hermione's continual frustration.

Whatever Black may have thought, she wasn't trying to snoop because she planned on _tattling_ on him to McGonagall or anything. Well, not unless he was doing something really outlandishly dangerous. Hermione had relaxed considerably on her policy of strict adherence to all school rules over the years For Godric's sake, she had _set a Professor on fire_ her first year. Well, his cloak anyway, she amended, but that was hardly better.

Despite her reputation, the muggleborn's own record regarding rule following was far from spotless. And it wasn't as though she didn't have secret projects of her own that she was working on. She supposed it really was none of her business what Black was up to, but even still she couldn't help her growing curiosity over it. At any rate, Hermione reasoned that constructing increasingly wild theories as to what the Marauder could possibly be working on was certainly a better use of her time than dwelling endlessly on her worry over her absent guardian.

* * *

Granger was watching him again. Sirius was fairly used to girls paying attention to him, but it usually wasn't his notes that they were after. The novelty of it was honestly somewhat amusing, and Granger's reason for staring, while admittedly slightly bizarre, was very much in keeping with her personality as he knew it.

The witch had clearly never encountered a piece of paper with words on it that she wasn't desperate to read. Sirius, who was conducting preliminary research into potential spells for Remus' map idea, had no intention of indulging her curiosity when it came to his notes, but it was certainly fun to watch Granger drive herself half mad as she struggled to get a proper look at them. The Marauder had to admit, though, that the brunettes antics regarding his notes weren't the only reason he was happy for her presence that holiday break.

It was no secret that Sirius hated being alone, and as pathetic as it may have been, he found himself grateful for Granger's near constant occupation of the Gryffindor common room, latching eagerly onto her proximity like some kind of lonely animal. Last year's Christmas had been a solid three weeks of Sirius speaking to no one but himself, and catching only the odd, unsatisfying glimpse of random students he didn't know as he aimlessly explored the Hogwart's corridors, an activity which he had discovered was considerably less fun by himself than it was with his friends. This year he would take whatever scrap of human contact he could get, even if it came in the form of a curly haired know it all with whom he shared a very weird history. Granger was hardly ideal companionship, but Sirius found himself gravitating to her nonetheless, just by virtue of the fact that she was a comfortingly familiar body.

He surveyed her out of the corner of his eye, a lot more subtly than Granger was eyeing his notes. She was certainly nice to look at, at any rate, Sirius acknowledged, eyeing the swell of her chest. She didn't have on her usual school sweater, but rather a tight, forest green one that emphasized both her breasts and her little waist. It looked very soft, and Sirius almost wanted to touch it. He'd always been tactile. Staring at her outline, the Marauder realized that he could have completely hated Granger's guts and he still would have been quite happy to look at her.

It wasn't as though he didn't like the girl, exactly, Sirius told himself, forcibly dragging his eyes away from her body. It was just that she confused and annoyed him in equal turns. Or maybe he was mostly just annoyed by his own response to her, he admitted, which he couldn't fully explain even to himself. Granger was attractive, yes, but lots of girls were attractive. Rebecca Forrester was attractive. Granger was _frustrating_ , and made his head hurt if he thought about her for too long. Nevertheless, Sirius was glad she was there.

* * *

Hermione rolled her shoulders, her body having grown stiff after hours spent hunched forward in continuous study. Even situated as she was in the choicest seat in the common room, leaning forward to scribble down notes every few moments wasn't exactly conducive to maximum comfort levels. She was just stretching her arms over head, contemplating the idea of putting aside her homework for the night and maybe taking up the muggle novel she was in the middle of ( _Heart of Darkness)_ , when her internal musings were unwelcomely interrupted the common room's sole other occupant.

"You know, you stretch v _ery_ loudly," Black observed, glancing up at Hermione over the top of his notes and pinning her with his eyes whilst she was mid-stretch. His tone was almost accusatory, though Hermione couldn't possibly fathom why. The muggleborn witch hastily dropped her arms, crossing them over her chest.

"Do I?" she asked, a bite of irritation underlying her tone. "Am I _bothering_ you with my _unreasonably loud stretching_ , Black?"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his own chest, mirroring her body language but managing to look considerably more relaxed than she was as he did. "No need to get so tetchy, Granger, I'm just telling you."

Looking at the infuriatingly cocky, nonchalant stance which Black had settled into, Hermione almost suspected that he _wanted_ to fight with her, likely because he was bored. Black didn't strike her as someone who coped particularly well with a persistent lack of outside, human stimulation, and it seemed he was attempting to provoke her into providing some for him. Loathe as Hermione was to indulge him in this effort, she still couldn't quite stop herself from taking the bait.

"Well, how charitable of you, Black, to offer that surely vital bit of information to me unsolicited," she quipped acidly. "May I inquire as to what exactly it is I sound like while stretching that is so offensive?"

"I never said it was offensive, Granger, I said it was _loud,_ " Black explained smugly.

"Loud like _what_?" Hermione pressed.

Black tipped his head to the side, considering her question. "A cat," he decided.

Hermione blanched, memories surfacing unbidden of the time she had unknowingly contaminated her otherwise perfectly brewed polyjuice potion with a cat hair and accidently turned herself into a replica of Millicent Bulstrode's beloved pet. Or a horrific, half human version of one, at any rate. The incident was one of a variety of nasty topics which now served as fuel for her all too frequent nightmares, and needless to say, it wasn't something she was keen to relive during her waking hours as well.

In the midst of Hermione's unhappy reminiscences, Black continued to speak. "Well, maybe not a cat," he said, amending his original opinion. "More like a kitten."

"A kitten," she repeated flatly. Hermione wasn't sure that this designation was really that much of an improvement over 'cat', but it was certainly less evocative of unpleasant memories for her. Just what 'kitten' itself was evocative of, though, the muggleborn witch wasn't sure.

Black appeared to be closely evaluating her reaction to this new term. "Maybe I should start calling you that," he suggested with a faint smirk. "Kitten."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Maybe you shouldn't," she countered.

Judging by the look on Black's face, though, she had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to be taking her own opinion very much under advisement when it came to the matter of her newly acquired nickname.

* * *

Sirius had taken to sleeping in the common room again. He'd gotten into the habit the previous Christmas break, having found that there was something inexplicably depressing about spending the night in the dorm by himself. Sirius never thought he'd miss Peter's snoring, but in its absence he found that surprisingly he did.

Without the familiar presence of his three friends to help fill it up, the Gryffindor fourth year dorm wasn't really a place he had an interest in spending a great deal of time. All of the room's typical, comforting banality vanished over the holiday break along with most of its usual occupants, and the empty space left behind only served to emphasize the loneliness of the one Marauder who remained. It was fucking depressing. Sirius couldn't sleep in there, not by himself.

And so for two years now he'd staked out a place for himself in the common room every night of Christmas break. Unlike his dorm, the common room, with its dominating red and orange tones and plethora of squashy furniture options, somehow managed to retain at least a faint impression of the abundancy of humanity which typically occupied it. Sirius had always thought that the room had a sort of inherent warmth to it, and whether he was imagining it or not, the atmosphere there was certainly a lot more conducive to his uninterrupted sleep than anywhere else he currently had access to. Granger was usually in the common room as well, Sirius had quickly discovered, lending a bit of actual humanity to the place that year beyond just the impression of it.

To his faint disappointment, she'd given up on trying to get a peek at his notes after a few days (Sirius had expected more tenacity) and now spent most of her time with her face buried in a book or taking notes of her own. Granger usually left around 10 or 11 at night to go up to bed, occasionally staying later, but always offering him a faint, absent minded 'good night' when she did leave. Her presence at Hogwarts that Christmas break, combined with Sirius' chosen sleeping arrangements for the duration of it, had the odd effect of Granger's sleep habits dictating when he went to bed.

While the stream of unconscious noises she made while studying was pleasant enough, especially to someone who liked falling asleep to background noise anyway, Sirius didn't want Granger to know that he was sleeping in the common room rather than up in his dorm like a normal person. He rather thought she suspected anyway though, at this point, given the looks she'd sent his way the last couple of nights as she'd headed off to bed. Granger had a way of scrunching her face up when she was puzzled about something, and judging by her telling facial expressions, she was beginning to think it was weird that he never left the common room before her.

Tonight though, she was putting him to the test. It was well past midnight, and Granger was still absorbed with the same muggle novel she'd been reading for the past few hours, something called ' _As I Lay Dying'_ , which hardly seemed like an enjoyable thing to read, but what did Sirius know about muggle literature. A lot less than Remus probably did, he figured. Irrespective of her questionable reading choices, though, Granger's continued presence in the common room, something which he'd welcomed for the entirety of their shared holiday break up until this point, was now becoming an issue for him. For once, Sirius was really quite tired, and he would have loved to have been able to let himself fall asleep. Except he _couldn't_ because Granger was still there in the room with him reading a depressing sounding book.

Leave it for his all too common insomnia to abandon him at a time when he couldn't even take advantage of it, Sirius reflected moodily. At the same time, he was forced to acknowledge the blatant irony of the situation, which was that while he wouldn't allow himself to fall asleep with Granger in the room, she was likely a large part of the reason he was so tired in the first place. Sirius had always slept better in the company of other people. When they were children, before he'd gone to Hogwart's and been sorted into Gryffindor, forever changing his relationship with his little brother, Regulus had used to sneak into his room at night to sleep. The creepily decorated rooms of his ancestral home, especially frightening at night, had always seemed less ominous in the company of his brother.

Of course he and Regulus were too old for that now, Sirius knew, not to mention the fact that they weren't really on speaking terms any longer. But he supposed he'd formed something of a habit in his formative years, an attachment to sleeping in the company of others that had become so ingrained in him that he struggled to ever fall asleep by himself. A dependency, then, Sirius was forced to concede. Remus was right, he really was fucking neurotic. At least he was somewhat self-aware about it. Sirius had always been good at acknowledging his own flaws, just not very good about actually doing anything about them. Hadn't Granger said something like that to him once? Sirius could swore that she had. Great, he realized, now he was internalizing the muggleborn witch's pithy observations about him. He shook his head, looking up only to find that, in an unexpected development, it was _Granger_ that had fallen asleep while he'd been thinking.

Her book was resting abandoned on her chest, rising and falling slowly with the steady rhythm of her breathing. Sirius studied her for a moment, watching her sleep and wondering what he was supposed to do now. He was just contemplating waking her up, though that seemed somehow rude or overly intrusive, when she began to stir on her own. Granger wasn't waking up though, Sirius realized quickly. She was having a nightmare. Or so it looked to him anyway, what with the way she had begun frowning in her sleep and moving about slightly, her face gradually transformed from blankly peaceful to agitated. If not yet in the midst of a full-fledged nightmare, Sirius figured that Granger was, at the very least, experiencing the beginnings of something unpleasant within the confines of her own mind.

Her movements were growing more and more distressed, and as she twisted abruptly to the side, Granger's unexpected motion sent the book which had previously been resting open on her chest spilling to the carpeted floor. Sirius stood, unsure what it was it he actually planned on doing, but feeling increasingly moved to do _something._ Shit, this was awkward. He approached Granger slowly, reaching out hesitantly to grasp her shoulder. She flinched at his touch, curling inward into the chair, away from him, in an attempt to shield herself from whatever it was that was happening in her nightmare. She let out another long, low whimper.

Sirius had to wake her up somehow, he determined. He knew people sometimes reacted badly from being suddenly woken up in the middle of a nightmare, but he honestly didn't care if Granger smacked him full on in the face like she'd done to Malfoy last year. Any reaction she could have to being roused would be infinitely better than listening to her whimper like that, he thought desperately. Placing his other hand on her other shoulder, and stepping forward so that his body was framing hers, he began to shake her; lightly at first and harder when she didn't respond to his initial efforts other than to begin whimpering even louder than before. Sirius didn't want to startle the girl overly, but he certainly did want to startle her enough to wake her up.

"Oi, Granger," he pleaded, voice echoing harshly throughout the common room, but seemingly unable to penetrate into the depths of Granger's consciousness. "Wake up. You've gotta wake up. It's me, Black. "

He hesitated slightly. "Sirius. It's Sirius, alright, you're gonna be fine. It's okay," he told her. "You're okay."

At his words, Granger stilled, her face relaxing and going slack as she slipped once more into unmarred, restful sleep. And just as abruptly as it had overtaken her, the grip of her nightmare seemed to release her.

Sirius let go of Granger's shoulders, startled but relieved by her sudden return to peaceful equilibrium. "That's it, Kitten, you're alright," he murmured, the nickname he'd so recently devised for her slipping unconsciously from his lips in the midst of his relief.

He peered curiously at her, perplexed by how suddenly the effects of Granger's nightmare had vanished (as a result of what, if anything definitive, Sirius didn't know) and he was afraid she could sink back into it at any moment. He was going to have to watch her. He'd never be able to sleep now anyway, Sirius reasoned, so at least he'd have something to do, even if it was going to be mind-numbingly boring.

Granger shifted in her chair again, driven not by a nightmare this time, but by what he suspected was the considerably more benign reason of mild physical discomfort. Watching her squirm around periodically in the thing, her body unconsciously seeking out a position with a level of comfort which simply didn't exist in such a confined piece of furniture, even for someone as puny as Granger, Sirius was eventually forced to conclude that he was going to have to move her.

She would sleep much better on the couch, and he would be able to zone out (a proxy for actual sleep) much more easily if she weren't thrashing around like that. Sirius thought that Granger probably would have slept best of all in her own bed, but he couldn't exactly bring her upstairs to her room himself, what with the stupid spell on the girls' staircase, which kept all males from ascending it even if their intentions were completely pure, as his would have been in this case. But the spell didn't differentiate based on things like intention, and so Granger would just have to settle for the sofa tonight.

Heaving a deeply aggrieved sigh, Sirius wondered why it was that such excruciatingly awkward situations were continually thrust upon him, and why a disproportionate amount of them seemed to involve the sleeping witch in front of him. Deciding that he better ought to just go for it before he managed to hopelessly overthink his strategy, Sirius settled one arm below the crux of Granger's legs, and using the other to support her lower back, unceremoniously plucked her up from her chair. Godric she was light, Sirius realized as he adjusted her in his arms. She couldn't have weighed much more than seven stone, he guessed, which seemed ridiculous.

"There you go, Kitten," Sirius said softly, trying out the nickname (endearment?) once more, but on purpose this time. It did seem fitting, somehow, he decided. Plus, if he called Granger that when she was awake, he suspected it might make her blush, which was an intriguing prospect.

It was startling how delicate she felt as he held her, Sirius thought, though perhaps part of that was due not to her actual physical slightness, but because of his own projections based on the nightmare he'd just witnessed her having. He didn't know if there was anything that rendered someone more diminutive, more vulnerable, than a nightmare. Which is why he was very grateful for both silencing charms and the thick set of curtains which surrounded his own bed.

He hated sleeping alone, but he would have hated someone witnessing him in the throes of a nightmare like the one he'd just seen Granger have even more, no matter if it were one of his best friends. Sirius resolved that he wouldn't ever mention any of what had happened tonight to Granger, not if she didn't bring it up to him first herself. It was really none of his business, the Marauder figured. He had just happened to be there. The girl seemed to be dead asleep now at any rate, so maybe she wouldn't even remember any of it come morning.

"You smell good," Granger murmured then, as though to purposely contradict him and disprove his theory on her state of consciousness. She had turned her head slightly and was speaking somewhere into the vicinity of his neck, her breath puffing warmly against the skin there. Sirius stilled. He hadn't thought she'd been awake at all, or he wouldn't have picked her up in the first place. If he'd thought her at all capable of it, he'd have simply suggested Granger relocate herself to the couch.

"Aftershave," he replied after a beat, voice soft as hers, but less tinged with sleep. He didn't wear anything else (Sirius wasn't some ponce who needed to douse himself in ungodly levels of cologne to try and make up for not showering often enough, ahem, Peter), so that must have been what she was smelling.

"You have to shave?" Granger mumbled curiously, shifting slightly in his arms and curling her body more into his chest, all without opening her eyes. Truth be told, she still seemed half asleep, which was probably the only explanation for why she hadn't yet thrown herself from his arms.

"Er, since this year, yeah," Sirius murmured, not entirely sure why he still wasn't moving. The sofa bed was right there next to them, he should have just plopped Granger down and had done with it. But suddenly he found that he wanted to keep holding on to her.

"I like your aftershave," Granger informed him sleepily. "It smells good. S'nice."

"You smell good too," Sirius told her, inching his nose closer to her plentiful curls, resisting the urge to bury his face completely within them and inhale. Granger _did_ smell good, he noticed, not for the first time, although this close to her he was more inundated with her scent than ever before. She smelled like baked apples and cinnamon and books. It was faintly intoxicating.

Letting out a little hum, Granger shifted once more within the confines of Sirius' arms, her movement resulting in the curve of her arse sliding down to settle into the grip of his right hand, which had previously been supporting the marginally safer region her lower back. To his deep embarrassment and faint alarm, Sirius felt his dick twitch. He needed to put Granger down _now._

Hastily repositioning her, though not so quickly as to wake her up, he walked towards the sofa, gently depositing her sleeping form on its surface. Granger stirred slightly as he let go of her, face twisting into a mild frown which Sirius assumed was prompted by the sudden lack of body heat surrounding her. _His_ body heat, specifically, which was a fact he really didn't want to focus on too closely at the moment. Instead, Sirius valiantly ignored Granger's sleepily muffled protests and re-covered her with the blanket that had slipped from her shoulders as he'd carried her.

He watched as she adjusted to the couch, turning her body slightly and snuggling down into the blanket, assuring himself that she was fully settled and asleep. Eventually it became difficult for Sirius to pretend that he was watching Granger for any altruistic, non-perverted reason, and he reluctantly forced himself to turn away from her. His dick still hadn't gone down (in fact, it'd perked up slightly), so with a frustrated groan he adjusted himself and made his way over to a chair a safe distance away from her.

Sirius settled in for the night, close enough to Granger that he'd be able to hear her if she slipped into another nightmare, but far enough away from her so that he didn't feel so much like some sort of creepy, weirdo, pervert getting his jollies from watching a girl sleep. Which he wasn't, Sirius told himself firmly, because while he may not have been known for his self-control, he did possess enough of it that he wasn't about to do something as stupid and disgusting as wank in the common room.

* * *

Hermione awoke slowly, surprised, at first, to find herself not ensconced of the familiarity of her own dormitory bed, but on a sofa in the common room. She sat up confusedly, blanket falling from her shoulders to pool in her lap, exposing the gray sweater she'd been wearing since yesterday, and peered blurrily around the room. It was when her eyes landed on Sirius Black, crammed into an uncomfortable looking chair halfway across the room, that her memories of the previous night came flooding back. Hermione collapsed onto the sofa, tugging the blanket up over her face and burying herself under it with a muffled groan.

Had she actually told Sirius Black that he _smelt good_ last night? Somehow that was infinitely more humiliating than the fact that he had obviously witnessed her having a nightmare. Hermione remembered that she'd had one last night, but that it had been much more aborted than usual, having been interrupted by the sudden, unexpected materialization of Sirius Black telling her that she was okay. The bleak, oppressive surroundings of her imagined horror-scape had quickly receded in response to his assurances, and Hermione's nightmare had abandoned her with unprecedented swiftness.

The muggleborn witch could only assume that her subconscious hadn't just randomly inserted Sirius Black into her dream as some sort of liberating avatar, but rather that Sirius Black the actual person had noticed her having a nightmare and had attempted to intervene in some way. Whatever the Marauder had done, it had worked, and Hermione was grateful. She just wondered why it was he'd decided he needed to move her. Hermione frowned, shedding her blanket and sitting up once more so that she could observe the still sleeping Black. Looking at the way he'd awkwardly contorted his own, long limbed body in order to fit into the confines of his arm chair, she supposed she could conclude that she must have looked similarly uncomfortable last night and that Black, in a fit of chivalry, had taken it upon himself to relocate her to the more spacious sofa bed.

While Hermione could understand the impulse (not that she'd have been able to return the favor if the shoe were on the other foot, as she was quite sure Black was far too heavy for her to lift), the results of it made her squirm with discomfort in a way she thought far worse than what she'd likely be experiencing if she'd spent her entire night sleeping in a chair. Black had picked her up bridal style, she remembered with a cringe, and despite its practicality, the uncomfortable symbolism of this particular method of transport was not lost on Hermione. She'd woken up somewhat as he'd moved her, and as a consequence was able to recall the feeling of being in Black's arms, cradled tightly up against his chest, quite vividly. The last thing Hermione was prepared to acknowledge at the moment was just how nice that had felt.

Unfortunately, she'd already acknowledged out loud, and to Black's face, no less, that she liked the way he smelled; like coffee and leather with an underlying hint of citrus, which Hermione thought must have been the bit that came from his aftershave. She leant forward, peering closely at Black's face. There was, she was able to determine, even from a distance, a distinct shadow of stubble decorating his jawline this morning.

Hermione wasn't sure why she was so interested in the revelation that Black apparently needed to shave now (every morning, she wondered?), but at least she'd managed to glean some new information from their encounter last night. She could now add 'sometimes in possession of stubble' to her mental list of characteristics associated with Sirius Black. It suited him, Hermione decided, along with making him look slightly older. She wondered idly what it would feel like if she were to touch it. Would it be as rough as it looked?

She was startled from her contemplation of Black's stubble by the Marauder himself, who, if the massive yawn he'd just cracked was any indication, appeared to be waking up now. He rubbed absently at his hair, mussing it ridiculously, and Hermione was forced withhold a snort. He looked so _rumpled_. Her amusement quickly dissipated however, with the realization that her own hair was likely a complete horror show at the moment.

"Morning," Black croaked when he noticed her looking, his voice still craggy with remnants of sleep.

"Morning," Hermione replied, patting self-consciously at her hair. It was never in its best state in the mornings, and after a night spent sleeping on a couch in the common room, she feared it must have looked horrid.

The more conscious and alert she became, the more eager she was to escape the bizarre, morning after situation that she'd inadvertently ended up in with Black. Hermione watched as the Marauder continued to yawn, clearly still in the process of waking up. Lucky him, she thought ruefully; apparently he wasn't yet fully coherent enough to have registered the profound awkwardness of the situation.

Black did not appear overly interested in continued conversation beyond their previously exchanged, cursory morning greetings, and frankly, Hermione wasn't either. After attempting to tuck her hair behind her ears, and finding that it was currently too bushy for her to be able to properly achieve such an action, she decided it was time for her to head up to the showers. Shrugging off her blanket and rising up off the couch with one last stretch, Hermione began to make her way toward the stairs to the girls' dorm, looking forward to what would hopefully be a blissfully hot and hair taming shower.

She wasn't sure what made her stop and ask Black the question she did as she passed him by. Perhaps it was simply because he was still so obviously sleep addled that she thought he might answer her honestly. Maybe it was because of the fact that, over the course of their shared holiday break, ever since the question had formed in her mind, she'd only grown progressively more curious about it.

"Black?" Hermione queried, coming to a stop in front of him. He made a grunting noise and focused his eyes on her, so she assumed he was listening. "Why don't you ever stay with Potter over break? Or Remus?"

Black stilled, obviously surprised by her question. And then he shrugged, his manner offhand in a way Hermione didn't quite believe.

"Remus is a half blood and the Potter's are blood traitors," he said simply. "My parents would never let me stay with either of them. As far as they're concerned, it's bad enough I even have to see them at school. Part of why they were so wrecked over the fact that I didn't end up in Slytherin is because they never wanted me to associate with people like James and Remus at all. Or at least they wanted me to do it as little as possible. Besides, they want me to be miserable," he finished with frank, bitter assuredness.

"Oh," Hermione said softly, shocked despite herself, though she really shouldn't have been, given all that she knew of Black's family.

"Don't look so sad, Kitten, if my parents smartened up a bit they'd force me to come home. Now _that_ would make me miserable. Shut up in that godforsaken, dead depressing house with them and Reg," he shuddered affectedly. "You're much better company."

"Oh. Er, thank you," Hermione said, though she wasn't sure how much of a compliment it actually was for Black to tell her he preferred her company over that of his parents. She suspected there was a very long list of people whose company he'd prefer to theirs, and that many of them were likely very unpleasant individuals, though assumedly less so than Black's family.

He shrugged again in response to her tentative thanks, and Hermione frowned, fearing that she may have unintentionally upset Black by asking what she had of him.

The muggleborn witch straightened up, adopting a prim posture and expression, the likes of which she often fortified herself with when she was about to do or say something distinctly outside of her comfort zone.

"Well, if it means anything to you Black, I'm glad you're here," she said, softly but with conviction. "At Hogwarts this year, I mean, over the break. But especially last night. Thank you for last night."

And then, impulsively, when she had finished speaking, Hermione leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

Black's stubble w _as_ rough, she registered belatedly as she scurried away from him and up the stairs to the safety and privacy of her dorm. Later, touching her hand softly to her mouth, Hermione realized that her lips were still tingling. She hadn't expected the effects of just a scant brush of her lips against Black's stubbled cheek to be so long lasting.

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _Things are finally heating up! Let me know what you guys think of all the major Sirius/Hermione interaction in this chap, hope you love reading it as much as I did writing it! Although my favorite part of this might actually be the Hagrid scene…I just love him. I have no idea how the 'Kitten' thing became such a thing in Sirius/Hermione fics, but I'm such a sucker for it and I knew I had to include it, so I hope you liked that bit!_

 _But anyway, please review, it motivates me so much!_


	20. Dynamics

**AN** : _Y'all, it has been too long! Apologies for the late update, life is crazy! Hope you enjoy this one. A_ _s always, reviews are love, your feedback is everything to me!_

* * *

Chapter 20: Dynamics

Lily, Hermione perceived quickly upon her reunion with her friend in the wake of their fourth year holiday break, was starting off the new year in an atypically glum mood. It seemed that she'd once again had something of a subdued Christmas. This was news that wasn't really all that surprising to Hermione, given her knowledge that Lily, for the second year in a row, had been forced to spend the holiday in the company of her sister Petunia and Petunia's insufferable prig of a boyfriend Vernon Dursley. The redhead was becoming increasingly worried that the two of them were settling into a long term relationship, one which, so far, had only served to exacerbate the pre-existing unpleasantness between her and her sister, and which Lily felt would likely continue to worsen things the longer it went on.

Normally, Hermione guessed that Lily might have turned to Snape for comfort and sympathy in such a situation, as he too had been home for the holiday break and Hermione knew that he and Lily were neighbors as well as friends, but the two of them were in something of a fight at the moment. In a bit of an awkward turn, the curly haired witch had discovered that the root of Lily's argument with Snape was actually the cruel comment the Slytherin had made about her teeth months previously, in the midst of that deeply unfortunate incident in Defense with Mary. While Hermione had never particularly liked Snape, and that was true whether you were talking about the exceedingly bitter man who'd taught her Potions in the 1990's or the awkward teenage version of the Slytherin she was forced to endure now, she hated being the cause of a fight between friends.

Quite beside the fact that it would have put her in an undeniably uncomfortable position anyway (Snape seemed to be focusing his intense glare on her more than usual), Hermione, since her displacement in time and her arrival in the 1970's, despised knowingly being the direct cause of anything which had even the smallest implication of possibly effecting the timeline down the road. The last thing she wanted to be was an impetus for anything major. There were certain, specific things, such as the welfare of her as of yet unborn, future/past best friend, or the unfair, magicless, legal status of Hagrid, for which she was willing to compromise herself and consciously try to effect change. At least if she was trying to do things on purpose she had some measure of control, Hermione reasoned. Needless to say, the muggle born had no desire to spend any additional time worrying over things which she might have _accidently_ put into to motion, such as the beginnings of a potential disintegration of Lily and Snape's unusual friendship. She had enough anxiety already.

"It's not only what he said about you, it's a lot of other things as well, " Lily explained vaguely at breakfast one morning, shortly after the resumption of term. Her expressive green eyes were more muddled than usual, and trained not on her Gryffindor friends, but on a distant point across the Great Hall where Hermione suspected Snape was likely sitting.

Snapping her attention away from the Slytherin table and back to Hermione and Dorcas in very a deliberate manner, Lily set about changing the subject.

"Can we _please_ talk about something that isn't Severus or my family now?" the red head implored her friends, voice strained with an edge of tired desperation that had Hermione internally wincing in sympathy.

"Family problems, Evans?" interjected a voice from over behind Hermione, causing the curly haired witch to stiffen considerably as the source of this unsolicited commentary reached forward over her shoulder in order to snatch a biscuit from the breakfast table, his motion moving the unexpected heat of his chest to brush against her own back.

Lily flushed, caught off guard and clearly unhappy to have been caught airing out her familial issues by Sirius Black. The red head appeared to be at a loss as for what to say, a rare occurrence which Hermione took as a mark of her friend's discomfort with the situation and what Black had happened to overhear.

"I don't see how our conversation is any of your business, Black," Hermione snapped protectively, turning her head to glare at the Marauder.

He merely smirked in response, dropping down next to her on the bench and taking an aggressively large bite out of his biscuit.

"Retract your claws, Kitten, it was a perfectly well meant question," Black said placatingly once he had finished chewing. "I'm no stranger to family problems myself."

'Kitten' Dorcas mouthed soundlessly to Lily, who appeared to have moved on from her indigent embarrassment quite quickly and was now darting her eyes interestedly between Sirius and Hermione as the pair of them argued.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, Black, it still doesn't give you the right to eavesdrop," Hermione said snippily.

Black shrugged. "Maybe you lot ought to concentrate on moderating your decibel level if you don't want other people to overhear what you're saying," he advised, causing Hermione to narrow her eyes at him.

"Can I ask you something, Black?"

He made an uncaring, 'go ahead' gesture, taking another bite out of his breakfast roll.

"Has your complete and utter lack of all sense of subtly and personal boundaries been a lifelong problem, or is it a more of a recent development?"

Black snorted in amusement. "Definitely not a recent development, Kitten, and you can confirm that with James."

"Confirm what with me?" Potter wondered mildly, having ambled on over to them in order to secure his own cheesy, breakfast biscuit and looking for all the world as though he were still half asleep, though that might just have been the impression given off by the unruly state of his hair.

"And who's Kitten?" the bespectacled boy asked belatedly around a mouth full of biscuit, displaying an unattractive glob of half chewed food as he spoke, causing Lily to wince bodily with disgust at the sight.

"Hermione is, apparently," Dorcas supplied, her manner bemused but gleeful in a way that made the muggle born witch distinctly nervous.

"Hmm," James mumbled around a hearty swallow of biscuit, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Sirius in response to this unexpected bit of news. He'd never known his friend to give a nickname to a girl before, or at least not a seemingly affectionate one. Sirius did have a few habitual, choice terms for Moaning Myrtle and Mrs. Norris, but those were all decidedly non-endearing. All of that to say, he certainly hadn't woken up this morning expecting to hear Sirius calling Hermione Granger 'Kitten'.

At this stage in their friendship, though, James was very much used to accepting all sorts of inexplicably bizarre, weirdo behavior from his fellow dark haired Marauder, to the point that, as in this case, he was usually able to take things in stride. Besides, it was far too early in the morning to be giving undue thought to the varying myriad of nonsense that happened to be coming out of Sirius' mouth at any given time.

"And what am I confirming for her?" James settled on asking eventually.

"My lack of subtly and personal boundaries," Sirius replied dryly.

"Check and check," the black haired boy agreed readily. "Though he does at least usually cast a silencing charm before engaging in certain specific activities now, so I would argue that improvements _have_ been made."

"Wonderful," Lily said sarcastically, pushing her half-finished breakfast plate away from her and turning disdainfully to James. "In case you somehow weren't aware, Potter, this is a dining hall in which people are currently trying to eat, so if you could kindly refrain from discussing Black's masturbatory practices while we're in the middle of breakfast that would be greatly appreciated."

Dorcas snorted indelicately before taking a bite out of her sausage link. Her appetite, at least, remained unspoiled, and Hermione had to wonder if, given the bounty of other food options on the blonde's plate, her choice of sausage had been a deliberate one. Dorcas, after all, had been known to suffer from a certain lack of subtly at times as well.

Potter was sputtering apologies at Lily. Having backpaddled remarkably quickly on the obvious tone of his earlier statement, he was now attempting to convince the redhead that it hadn't necessarily meant what she'd taken it to imply. Hermione thought this was highly unlikely, and a particularly weak defense on Potter's part, especially since its believability hinged on Lily being something of a twit, which she most assuredly was not.

"Give it a rest, would you Potter?" Lily broke in irately, cutting him off mid-sentence. "You're giving me a migraine."

James closed his mouth abruptly, looking as though he couldn't decide whether he ought to be annoyed or crestfallen in the wake of this damning pronouncement from Lily. Hermione _almost_ felt bad for him, knowing that her friends' already frayed mood this morning had probably caused her to react to Potter's remark with more harshness than she might have normally. He did look genuinely a bit hurt somewhere underneath his bravado, and it couldn't have been easy to be shut down over and over so emphatically by the object of ones' affection. If Hermione were honest though, her outsize sympathy for James probably had a lot less to do with either his or Lily's behavior, and a lot more to do with the fact that he looked so much like Harry. Or what she imagined a slightly older version of the Harry she had known would have grown to look like.

But James Potter certainly was _not_ Harry, no matter how much he might have looked like him, and the particular brand of pushy flirtation he constantly employed with Lily, year after year, had primed her to react to even the most innocuous behavior on his part with annoyance and anger. Lily, perhaps, wasn't always justified in her reactions to him, but Potter had certainly done a great deal over the years to cultivate and cement the red head's strong dislike of him. Hermione honestly couldn't imagine the two of them together romantically, though she knew that eventually it would come to pass. She reckoned the two of them both had a lot of growing up to do in the meantime, Potter especially.

Hermione sipped idly at her coffee, watching Black sling a consoling arm around Potter's shoulder and steer him away. Lily visibly relaxed the moment the two of them where at a sufficient distance, and Hermione patted her arm in sympathetic solidarity, while Dorcas pushed a tempting plate of bacon in the red head's direction. Lily accepted the offering with a smile that was only faintly strained. Hermione smiled as well, hopeful that her friend was perking up a bit. Belatedly, she realized that she'd been so distracted by Lily and Potter's sniping that it had completely derailed her own argument with Black. Oh well, Hermione thought to herself mildly, she supposed they'd inevitably pick it up later.

* * *

"What am I doing wrong with her, mate?" James groused to Sirius down at the other end of the breakfast table, his manner downright despondent. "She hates me."

"Well for starters you might want to stop talking about my dick in front of her."

"I wasn't talking about your dick!" James protested loudly, just as Remus was arriving to join them.

Hearing this exclamation, the werewolf, who'd slept uncharacteristically late that morning and had only woken up about ten minutes before, raised his eyebrows in alarm and then promptly turned around and walked in the other direction.

"You alluded to it," Sirius pointed out to James after having smothered a laugh in response to Remus' abrupt and immediate departure. Apparently Moony wanted to hear about his dick about just as much as Evans did. "And just to be clear, I don't think you really ought to be talking about _your_ dick in front of Evans either. Not at this stage. That'd really put her off, I expect. Probably best to just stay away from the topic of dicks in general with her, right now."

"Thanks for that," James said sarcastically.

Choosing to ignore his tone, Sirius clapped him on the back amiably. "Any time mate, any time."

"What have you done to Granger, by the way?" James wanted to know, keen to change topics. He was feeling depressed enough about the situation with Lily as it was, he didn't need to belabor the point if Sirius didn't have any actual useful advice to give on the matter, which it seemed that he didn't. James really wished Moony hadn't left so quickly. Now _he_ might have some actual useful advice. James contemplated seeking him out later, maybe before Charms. In the meantime, he could interrogate Sirius about his own perplexing situation with Granger, who clearly didn't hate the bloke quite as much as she used to.

Sirius had furrowed his brows. "I dunno what you're talking about, mate. I haven't _done_ anything to Granger lately except argue with her, but that's hardly new with us, is it?"

James raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "She's letting you call her Kitten, Sirius. If I tried to call Evan's Kitten she'd hex me in a minute flat. And what the fuck is the 'Kitten' thing about anyway? When did that start?"

Sirius shrugged defensively. "Break. And, oi! Granger is _not_ my Evans, so you can quit with that comparison right quick, mate," he said testily. "I just happen to think Kitten is a fitting nickname for her, is all."

"So you won't mind if me, Remus and Peter start calling her that, then?"

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Granger doesn't even talk to Peter, I think she dislikes the poor, fidgety bugger more than me now."

"Exactly!" James crowed, easily seeing through his friends' obvious attempt deflection. He suspected Sirius would actually be extremely irritated if anyone else tried to call Granger 'Kitten', and even more irritated if she didn't protest it. "I don't understand it! She used to hate you!"

Sirius shrugged once more. "People evolve, mate," he said simply. "And just because Granger doesn't hate me anymore doesn't mean we're friends or anything ridiculous like that. We just have a certain…dynamic."

"Well that's one word for it," James said doubtfully, though he wasn't sure exactly what term he himself would have used to define Sirius and Granger's relationship. He supposed 'dynamic' was as appropriate as anything, though he might have added 'tension filled' as a pre-fix to that particular descriptor.

"She did kiss me on the cheek though," Sirius added absently as he munched on a scone, seemingly more preoccupied with his breakfast than the bombshell he'd just dropped on his best friend's lap.

"WHAT?!" James sputtered.

* * *

"So," Lily said, apropos of nothing, as she, Dorcas, and Hermione settled in the common room that evening to work on their latest assignments, " _Kitten_?"

Hermione stiffened instantly, an involuntary frown with an air of vague irritation suddenly overtaking her face. She really couldn't fathom why her friends were so intent on discussing what was such a clearly frivolous matter with her. A silly little nickname, of all things to fixate upon! Unfortunately, judging by the intensely curious looks on both girls faces (Dorcas' containing an obvious undercurrent of amusement, Lily's more thoughtful), they _were_ intent on badgering her about it.

"Thought we'd forgotten about that one, had you?" Dorcas said knowingly into the weighty silence that followed Lily's statement as Hermione tried to think what to say. "Fat chance."

"Well, it's hardly anything of note, so I wouldn't have been surprised if you _had_ forgotten," Hermione responded smoothly, taking up her quill and penning the title of her Charms essay at the top of her parchment, her action conveniently allowing her to avert her eyes from her friends. "It's just a nickname."

Although, Hermione mused, it wasn't as if she'd ever had one before. Not from anyone but her parents, that is. Ron had called her 'Mione' once, back in the 1990's, but that had only been because his mouth had been full at the time and he couldn't be bothered to swallow properly before addressing her. Hermione had glared at him in response and he'd never called her 'Mione' again.

"Hermione you can hardly expect us not to notice that Black is running around calling you Kitten now, of all things!" Dorcas challenged, completely flabbergasted by the muggleborn's blatant brushoff of what was clearly a significant development in the relationship between her and Black.

"When did he start calling you that?" Lily asked more measuredly.

"Over break," Hermione said simply, folding her arms defensively across her chest. "And what do you mean 'Kitten, of all things'?" she demanded, turning to Dorcas with an indignant glare.

The blonde scoffed at her in response. "Kitten is not just some ordinary, run of the mill nickname, Hermione," Dorcas explained, as though Hermione were being dense on purpose (which she may well have been, not that she would admit it). "It's a pet name, first of all, which is different than just a nickname, _and_ it's undeniably flirtatious. Lily, back me up here!"

"It does seem like more of an…endearment, than just a plain nickname," Lily said with a shrug.

"So what if it's flirtatious?" Hermione countered stubbornly. "Black is a flirtatious person, he flirts with practically everyone except the Slytherins. For Godric's sake, he flirts with Remus!"

"Do you think so?" Dorcas asked interestedly, having been successfully diverted by the latter part of Hermione's argument.

"Yes," Hermione asserted firmly.

"I suppose he does," Lily agreed after a moment. "Potter as well sometimes. Not Pettigrew though."

Dorcas snorted. "Pettigrew wouldn't know what to do if anyone flirted with him, much less a bloke. He'd probably spontaneously combust on the spot out of pure embarrassment."

"My _point_ ," Hermione continued, "is that Black flirts constantly with most everyone, and him calling me Kitten doesn't amount to anything more than him trying to get a rise out of me." She shrugged. "I simply won't let it work"

Dorcas huffed frustratedly, which Hermione took as a reluctant acknowledgment of her point.

"Well how did all this Kitten business come about anyway?" the blonde demanded. "Or did Black just randomly start calling you that over break for no apparent reason other than to ruffle your feathers? That is, if kittens happened to have feathers, which they don't. This new nickname of Black's for you has me mixing my animal metaphors Hermione, I don't know if I like that!"

"I think you'll live," Hermione suggested. "And he was complaining about how loudly I was stretching, an exaggeration, surely, as I am not that loud. Black was just bored and looking for something to pick at me about, and he said I sounded like a noisy Kitten or something," she volunteered in a rush, eager to get through the ridiculous explanation as quickly as possible.

"Yes, what a tremendous insult," Lily said dryly. "A noisy kitten," she leant back against the couch, surveying Hermione with renewed interest. "The _origin_ of this nickname of yours is certainly flirtatious, I'll say that much."

Dorcas was nodding in agreement. "Stretching is inherently sexual," she said simply, as though she were stating an indisputable fact.

Hermione was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. It was possible she'd choked on her own spit. "Stretching is inherently sexual!?" she parroted disbelievingly, once she'd recovered herself. "Since when? Do you even hear yourself, Dorcas?!"

The blonde raised her eyebrows at her. "There's no need to get hysterical, Hermione, just because you know I'm right."

"I'm the hysterical one?" Hermione cried. "Oh that's rich, coming from you! Well, some of us happen to take things seriously around here, and I have a charms essay to be getting on with! I'm going to the library!"

* * *

"Only Hermione would end an argument by dramatically declaring that she was going to the library and then storming out," Dorcas noted bemusedly in the aftermath of the muggleborn's departure.

"I better go after her," Lily said with a sigh, packing up her homework things and grabbing Hermione's as well. In her haste to leave, the brunette had forgotten them.

* * *

"Are you alright?" Lily asked, having found Hermione tucked away in a back corner of the library, a book on advanced charms theory open before her. Lily suspected that that particular book was a little too advanced to be strictly relevant to the essay they were currently working on, but she wouldn't begrudge Hermione the cover and comfort of it to hide behind. After all, she'd left her regular Charms text in the common room along with both her essay parchment _and_ her ink and quill. What Dorcas had said must have seriously flustered her.

Hermione had always been particularly tetchy when it came to Black, Lily knew, for whatever reason, and Dorcas, being Dorcas, had never been able to resist picking at her about it. This time it seemed she'd pushed the other girl slightly too far.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Hermione said softly in response to Lily's question.

The redhead shrugged, taking a seat across the table from her friend. "Well, you did just sort of storm out of the common room in a rather dramatic fashion, which I took as an indicator you might be upset."

Hermione let out a small snort. "Yes, I suppose I did," she acknowledged. "And I suppose I am. Or was, anyway. Now I suppose I'm realizing that I may have slightly overreacted," she finished, somewhat ruefully.

"Hermione," Lily probed cautiously. "Why _did_ you get so upset? I know Dorcas can be pushy sometimes, especially about certain things, and that it can get to be a bit much at times but…it did seem like you had an usually harsh reaction to her antics today."

Hermione sighed frustratedly, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear before attempting to explain. "I know I did, but she just gets so fixated on me and Black, Lily. It's like she wants to invent some kind of relationship or—or tension between us that just doesn't exist, and I don't understand where she's getting any of it from or why she's so invested in pretending there's something there that isn't. Black and I aren't even friends! Today, well, I just got fed up with the lot of it," she finished exhaustedly, tucking her arms across her chest in a way that was unconsciously defensive.

In the wake of this explanation, which made evident that Hermione was still at least somewhat upset, Lily decided that it would be wise to refrain from sharing her own personal opinion that Dorcas was hardly delusional for thinking that there was _something_ of significance going on between Hermione and Black. Lily didn't necessarily believe it was anything romantic, but you'd have to be either a blind imbecile or deeply in denial to be able to completely ignore the bizarre, tension filled dynamic which clearly existed between the two of them. Hermione herself clearly fell into the 'deeply in denial' camp. And while Lily might not have agreed with the way Dorcas went about teasing their friend over Black when he was clearly a subject Hermione was uncomfortable with on some level, the red head did want to see if she could maybe push her fellow muggleborn just a bit to talk more about her perplexing relationship with him. Subtly, of course. Not to be arrogant, but Lily felt that she may have possessed certain abilities which Dorcas didn't when it came to getting Hermione to open up on the subject of Black.

"What set you off in particular today though?" Lily pressed. "Did anything else happen over Christmas break? Between you and Black?" She must have correctly read the beginnings of an affronted look on Hermione's face, because she hastened to add, "Or just in general?"

Hermione sighed once more, the guarded expression she'd instinctively adopted slipping from her face along with her tired exhalation. She supposed there really wasn't much use in having friends if you didn't confide in them every once in a while. And besides, it was exhausting hiding things from Lily, no matter how much practice she had at it by now. Better to let little secrets slip out rather than major ones regarding her possibly unfixed existence in this time, Hermione reasoned. It might even make her feel better.

"I think Black sleeps in the common room," she began, somewhat inanely. This information prompted a perplexed glance from Lily, who probably hadn't expected Hermione to start in by detailing Black's irregular sleeping habits. "During breaks, I mean, not normally," she clarified.

"Why though?" Lily wondered, seeming mystified.

Hermione chewed her lip, propping her chin up against her hand as she thought. "I'm not sure," she said slowly, taking some time to attempt to organize her cloudy, speculative musings on the subject into something resembling coherence. "I think he gets lonely," she said eventually, talking almost more to herself than to Lily. "I think Black hates being alone."

Lily frowned. "Do you think he was sleeping down in the common room because you were there?"

"No," Hermione said immediately and with certainty. "In fact I may have been annoying him a bit," she confessed with a small smile. "I don't think Black felt like he could fall asleep when I was still in the common room. He was embarrassed or something; didn't want me to know he was doing it even though it was entirely obvious. Anyway, _I_ fell asleep in there one night and he caught me having a nightmare."

Lily's eyes widened considerably. "Was it—was it bad?" she asked hesitantly.

"No," Hermione said honestly. "Black must have noticed quite quickly and roused me from it, though I don't think I actually woke up at all. I just remember the beginnings of one of my usual dreams, and then this vague impression of Black, or his voice anyway, and then I was just asleep. He did move me at one point and I woke up a bit then, but that was later, I think."

"He _moved_ you?"

Hermione looked down a the library table top, blushing slightly as her indistinct, but distinctly embarrassing, memories of that part of the night surfaced. She definitely was _not_ planning on telling Lily about her positive impression of Black's aftershave, or that she was pretty sure she'd shared that impression with Black himself, no matter how good of friends they were.

"I'd been in a chair. I think he must have thought I looked uncomfortable, so he moved me to the sofa."

Lily was staring at her, green eyes wide with shock. "Wow," she said finally.

"He was very sweet, actually," Hermione said softly, making herself look up at Lily, wanting her to understand. "I think he was worried I would have another nightmare. He stayed with me all night. Or, in the common room, at least," she tacked on self-consciously at the end, aware that Black probably would have slept in the common room anyway, as she'd discovered was apparently his wont during school breaks. For some reason though, despite her knowledge of his odd sleeping habits, it had still felt to Hermione like Black had stayed that night out of particular concern for her. Maybe it was the way she'd seen in the morning that he'd positioned himself; across from her and turned in her direction, like he was watching over her.

"So you woke up and he was still there?" Lily asked, contemplating the prospect of such a situation with a mix of mystification and a faint amount of (perhaps unfairly ascribed) horror. "Was it terribly awkward?"

"A bit, yes," Hermione acknowledged. "I'm sure my hair looked positively atrocious, not to mention the remnants of my makeup from the night before, even if it was just a bit of mascara."

Lily hummed sympathetically, thinking it interesting that Hermione had both chosen to continue wearing makeup over break when Black had been her only company, and that she evidently cared what he thought of her hair as well. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad," the red head said placatingly. "How did Black look?"

"Rather as though he'd slept upright in a chair in the common room all night and needed a shave."

Lily paused briefly to snort at the mental picture her friend had just provided, before plowing on with her questioning. "And did you say anything to him then? Or did Black say anything to you?" she wanted to know.

Hermione was now looking distinctly awkward, and once more avoiding Lily's gaze. "I asked him something, and it seemed to upset him, which hadn't been my intention," she explained, rather evasively, Lily felt. The curly haired witch clearly wasn't too keen to dwell on the moment, or to provide Lily with any more information about just what she'd asked Black that may have upset him. "Anyway," Hermione continued hastily, "I felt badly about it, and so I—I said thank you for the night before, you know, everything with the nightmare, and then I…kissed him on the cheek."

"You kissed Black on the cheek," Lily repeated dumbly back to her after a moment, still attempting to work through her shock regarding this new, unexpected piece of information.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "But it was purely platonic," she insisted.

Lily said nothing in response to this, simply raising a single, challenging eyebrow at her friend.

"It was," Hermione reiterated stubbornly. "I've kissed Remus on the cheek before as well," she added, as though this somehow furthered her argument.

Lily gaped at her; the onslaught of revelations from Hermione tonight seemed to be bursting forth and accumulating at an unprecedented level. "When was this?!" the red head demanded.

"Keep your voice down, you're going to get us kicked out the library!" Hermione shushed her, going on to answer to Lily's question in a much quieter voice than that which the red head had asked it in. "I kissed Remus on the cheek in the hospital wing once," she explained with a shrug. "It wasn't a big deal, and it was purely platonic."

"Everything you do is purely platonic, apparently," Lily said dryly.

"Not everything, just when I kiss various Marauder's on the cheek," Hermione insisted, wryly but firmly.

Lily shook her head in bemusement. "I still can't believe you kissed Sirius Black _anywhere_ ," she said, her tone disbelieving. "Remus I can understand; you're friends and I can imagine the context, but Black…," Lily trailed off, her lack of understanding lingering tangibly but un-vocalized in the air between them.

"You mustn't tell Dorcas about any of this Lily, please," Hermione pleaded. "She'll take it all wrong and make a big thing of it, I know she will. Promise me you won't say anything to her?"

"Alright," Lily conceded, somewhat reluctantly. "I won't say anything to Dorcas, but I won't lie to her if she asks me about it either, Hermione. You know she has ways of managing to ferret things out and you'll just have to deal with her opinions when and if she does."

Hermione nodded her acceptance of this, more than happy with such a compromise. She felt uncomfortable asking Lily to go so far as to lie for her, especially to Dorcas. And she wasn't exactly doing that, Hermione told herself firmly. She was merely…imploring a friend to be as discrete as possible on her behalf as she were comfortably able. It was hardly an ethically compromising situation for either of them. And even if it could somehow be construed as such, Hermione had to acknowledge that she was something of an expert at occupying ethically compromising situations at this point. For Godric's sake, her entire existence in the 1970's was an ethically compromising situation. It was only natural, then, that she'd accumulated a lot of practice at deftly maneuvering through one.

Lily, for her part, had a feeling the truth would come out eventually anyway whether she mentioned anything to Dorcas or not. Hermione wasn't quite as good at keeping secrets as she might've liked to think.

* * *

Mary McDonald walked briskly down a side street of Hogsmeade, her business that day taking her off the regularly beaten path of the wizarding village to an area not typically frequented by visiting Hogwart's students. Mary herself, however, was quite familiar with her chosen route by this time, having traversed it half a dozen times over the past year or so. The brunette paused across the street from her destination to adjust her scarf (a nondescript gray one, rather than any which might have advertised her Gryffindor house affiliations) using the motion of the action as a cover to furtively scan the area for any overly interested seeming bystanders. It simply wouldn't do to be seen alone in this part of the village by any of her fellow students when, as far as they would have been aware, she was supposed to be meeting her mother for lunch at the complete opposite end of town.

Mary couldn't take the chance of anything regarding her unusual whereabouts today, not to mention the company she would be keeping, getting back to her dormmates. Truth be told, though, she wasn't overly worried. Lily, Dorcas and Hermione were far too consumed with their own various litany of personal dramas to be very much concerned about anything that she, Mary, might happen to be getting up to. Little did they know, the brunette thought wryly. But people had always underestimated her, including, and perhaps most especially, her own dormmates. Mary had come by now to expect that sort of regard and the unthinkingly dismissive treatment which naturally followed. For so long she'd accepted such a muted existence passively, but now, with the help of her mentor, she was learning to use other people's lack of due consideration for her to her own advantage. Mary now understood that sometimes it was a very good thing to be so chronically underestimated, for it allowed you to get away with ever so much without anyone even bothering to notice.

She took a seat at the usual table, knowing that her companion would be arriving shortly, precisely on time for their meeting, just as always. He never kept her waiting, nor she him. It was one of the many things which she appreciated about their relationship; his unfailing sense of courtesy toward her. His manners were always impeccable, but Mary supposed that was only natural, given his upbringing. She found that it was a welcome change to be able to spend time with such a person; one in possession of such an impressive pedigree and with whom she could converse intelligently as an equal, or at least as his protegee. She did so enjoy her visits with her mentor, happening as they now were with an increasing regularity.

Mary could sense his presence the moment he arrived, a whiff of his tastefully expensive cologne filtering across the establishment to fill her senses as she waited for him. When he smiled at her it had a dangerous, predatory edge, one that Mary was in no way oblivious to. Far from putting her off, it excited her.

"Mary Mary quite contrary" he greeted her, the usually innocuous rhyme more sinister on his lips than it ought to have been. He surveyed the girl before him almost proprietarily; she was after all, an asset which he possessed, and one which needed to be milked carefully for information . "What news do you have for me?"

* * *

 _ **AN about sex stuff**_ : _So I want to address some comments/concerns I got from guest reviewers last time about the developing sexuality in this story. Sirius and Hermione are currently both 15 and in their 4_ _th_ _year as it is right now. It doesn't seem like a stretch to me that Sirius would be having sex already, although I'm not saying it's necessarily for entirely healthy reasons in his case._

 _Him having sex with Rebecca, a sixth year (which would make her 16 or maybe 17) would be akin to a junior in high school having sex with a freshman (in American terms). That doesn't seem like that much of a stretch to me either, and I definitely saw that happen when I was in high school, although the genders were more typically reversed. But a 15 year old boy having sex with a 16 year old girl doesn't seem that out of the norm to me._

 ** _If I do write anything underage that crosses over into being explicit, I will warn for it_** _though I don't think I've done anything nearly close to that yet and I'm not sure if I will._

 _Just wanted to explain my reasoning for everything a bit :)_

 _Please review! And feel free to do it out of guest if you have an account lol, sometimes its nice to respond to things directly rather than leaving long, rambling AN's ;)_


	21. The Spring Soiree

_**AN:**_ _So I *did* decide to do a dance in their fourth year like in the books. Neither a parallel nor a hacky alliteration can I resist, so I bring you this chapter, the title of which I'm pretty sure has been influenced by the fact that me and my boyfriend have been marathoning 'Frasier' nonstop lately. A 'Spring Soiree' is totally some bullshit Frasier and Niles would come up with. This chapter takes place in the spring of 1975._

 ** _My apologies for how late this is, but it's long and I feel like a lot happens so...hope you like!_**

 ** _CW: underage drinking, including as an unhealthy form of self-medication, and a bit of innuendo._**

* * *

Chapter 21: The Spring Soiree

"Amos Diggory is looking at you," Dorcas murmured to Hermione, tipping her head in the direction of the blonde Hufflepuff boy who was sitting just across the way from the girls with a group of his housemates . It was a Hogsmeade weekend in early April and Lily, Hermione and Dorcas were perched at a high table in the Three Broomsticks enjoying some afternoon butterbeers.

"No he isn't," Hermione said dismissively, not bothering to look up from the text she'd purchased earlier. If she _had_ looked up anytime in the last half hour, she would have noticed that Amos Diggory had indeed been sending glances her way; every few moments, and rather unsubtly at that.

"He is," Lily confirmed.

"And why on earth would he be doing that?" Hermione asked curiously, finally deigning to close her book and fully engage with her friends.

"I might have mentioned to him that you thought he was cute," Dorcas informed her with an offhand, unapologetic shrug. Since Hermione's blow up at her about Black a few months prior, the blonde had been focusing her match making energies with regards to the curly haired, muggleborn witch elsewhere. Outwardly, at least. And now it seemed they had landed on Amos Diggory.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "When did I say that? And since when do you talk to Amos Diggory?"

"You said it months ago at a quidditch match. And for your information, Hermione, I make it my business to be in at least semi-regular communication with all the cute boys at Hogwarts in our year and above. Disregarding Slytherins of course," Dorcas supplied semi-smugly.

"Well that sounds exhausting," Lily said with a laugh.

"Oh it is," Dorcas replied seriously. "But it's important work nonetheless." She turned to Hermione. "You really don't remember saying that?

The brunette shook her head. "No, but if it was at a quidditch match it's certainly possible I just blocked the whole thing out."

Hermione stopped to sneak a glance at the boy in question, hastily looking away when she happened to accidently meet his eyes. They were a brilliant blue. Rather similar to Ron's, actually, or at least the way that Hermione remembered the color of the redhead's having been.

Ron would have hated Amos Diggory, Hermione was sure. Probably would have called him unbearably smug or some such thing. But the imagined opinion of one of her currently unborn best friends didn't preclude the Hufflepuff boy from being attractive. He certainly was that.

"I suppose Diggory is cute enough," Hermione acknowledged after a lengthy pause.

Dorcas laughed. "That's what you said at the quidditch match."

"Where's Mary?" Lily broke in, glancing around the pub for their missing year mate. "I thought she was supposed to be meeting us for lunch."

"No, she said she was meeting her mum," Dorcas explained unconcernedly. The blonde was far too used to Mary's habitual absence from their group at this point to be very much put out by it anymore.

Lily, though, appeared slightly more perturbed by this news. "Oh," she said faintly, sounding disappointed but resigned. Hermione frowned, unsure as ever what to make of Mary's undeniably increasing distance from the three of them, but remaining unsettled by it nonetheless. Lily was obviously becoming worried about the matter as well now.

Sensing the mood change, Dorcas cleared her throat awkwardly, making a valiant effort to rekindle the girls' previously lighthearted conversation about boys. Despite the blonde's best attempts though, the atmosphere among the friends was somewhat subdued after that.

* * *

Slughorn was looking suspiciously pleased this morning, Hermione noted warily as she took her usual seat in the dungeons for Double Potions. The three hour block of a class was hardly one that she ever anticipated with glee, but it threatened to become positively unbearable if Slughorn happened to be in one of his particularly obnoxious moods. Hermione exchanged a worried glance with Lily, who'd clearly noticed their Professor's odd manner as well. It would have been hard to miss, the way Slughorn was practically brimming over with self-congratulatory excitement, as though he were positive he was about to dazzle them all with some fabulous new scheme they were sure to love. Undoubtedly this was regarding some stupid new announcement about the Slug Club, Hermione figured, pulling out her Potions text.

The muggleborn thought it was really rather rude of Slughorn, the habit he'd taken up of making such announcements during class; it took away valuable time from their lesson, and besides that, the goings on of his exclusive, little club were by no means relevant to the entirety of his forcibly captive audience, given that he was very selective about who he invited to participate. Hermione felt that if one was going to be purposely exclusionary, it was quite tacky to be so obvious about it. She'd turned down many an invitation to a Slug Club event since her arrival in the 1970's, at first on the advice of Lily, and later of her own accord after she'd had time to fully take Slughorn's measure and decide for herself that she wanted very little to do with him outside of class. But just because Hermione, among others in the room, had spurned Slughorn's offerings, that didn't mean there weren't people who felt badly for being continually passed over by the man.

"Before we begin today, I have an announcement," Slughorn began grandly, once the class had settled. His assembled students, fourth year Gryffindors and Slytherins, stared expectantly back at him. A few seemed vaguely intrigued by the prospect of Slughorn's coming announcement, but most appeared glazed over with varying degrees of boredom, as was a typical state for Hogwart's students by the time they arrived at their last class of the day, especially when that class happened to be Double Potions. Slughorn was undeterred in the face of this tepid reaction.

"I'm sure you will all be most pleased to learn that I, in consultation with my fellow Heads of House and the Head Boy and Girl, have spent the last few months devoted to planning what is sure to be a wonderful, end of the year diversion for Hogwart's students fourth year and above!"

He paused dramatically here, obviously pleased that he'd now managed to generate at least some level of anticipatory curiosity, if not excitement, from the assembled Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth years.

"You're canceling exams!" Peter Pettigrew suggested wildly into the silence.

Slughorn made an irritated face, clearly unhappy to have been interrupted in the midst of his monologue, despite the fact that he himself had invited the opportunity by indulging in his own overdramatic tendencies. "Don't be silly, my dear boy," the Professor said dismissively, causing sighs of disappointment to abound throughout the room.

Quickly seeking to recapture the mood, Slughorn barreled on. "On May the second," he boomed importantly, "Hogwarts will be holding a dance like no other, an entirely unique experience; A Spring Soiree!"

"A what?" James Potter asked, projecting his voice above the dense set of whispers which had broken out following Slughorn's statement.

"Are you deaf, Potter, it's a dance," Lily informed him snottily. Snape, who was sitting next to her, smirked triumphantly at her tone, though Lily was too busy glaring at Potter to notice the Slytherin's reaction.

"A dance indeed, Miss Evans!" Slughorn concurred jubilantly. "And one which I will not shy away in taking the lions share of credit for, though I daresay your Professor McGonagall might wish to contest me on that once the Soiree is a smashing success!"

Hermione very much doubted this. She had a hard time imaging someone as usually no-nonsense as Professor McGonagall being overly involved in the planning of a frivolous dance, much less falsely taking credit for it in its aftermath.

"You may ask your House Prefects for more details as the date draws closer!" Slughorn advised, fighting to make himself heard over the swell of noise that had rapidly overtaken his classroom in the wake of his announcement of the Spring Soiree. Hermione couldn't help but feel that it would have been wiser of the man to have waited until the end of the lesson to make said announcement. Slughorn, though, appeared almost entirely unconcerned with getting his classroom back under control at the moment, seeming content to revel for the time being in the chaos he'd unleashed.

* * *

News of the Spring Soiree spread rapidly throughout the castle, and before long it seemed that all of the students of Hogwarts, even those in years too young to attend the upcoming dance, were abuzz with talk of nothing else. The Gryffindor fourth years were in no way immune from this, no matter how much some of them may have wanted to avoid the subject.

"Are you going to ask Rebecca?" James prodded Sirius at breakfast one morning, shortly after the dance had been announced.

Sirius stiffened slightly, pausing with his spoon half way to his mouth . "She's going with her friends," he said simply.

"So you've already discussed it then?" Remus sought to clarify.

"Yeah, it came up," Sirius acknowledged.

"She didn't say no when you asked her, did she Sirius?" Peter asked, watery blue eyes wide with wonder at this possibility.

"No, Peter," Sirius said tiredly. "I didn't get the chance to ask her, even if I'd wanted to," he paused, the 'and I didn't' hanging unspoken but obvious in the space between his words. "She's the one who brought it up, and she told me she wanted to go with her friends, which is just fine with me because I don't want to go at all."

"You don't?" Peter looked completely bewildered by this assertion on Sirius' part; James and Remus less so. "But why wouldn't you want to take your girlfriend to the dance Sirius?"

"I keep telling you, mate, Rebecca's not my girlfriend," Sirius said shortly.

"He's just using her for sex," Remus said mildly, his tone ambiguous enough that it was hard for Sirius to tell whether or not he meant this as a criticism or a mere statement of fact. Whatever the case, it put his hackles up just a bit.

"We're using each other, it's a convenient arrangement for everyone," he snapped in return. "And I've been to enough bloody balls in my life to know what they're like, I don't need to go to Slughorn's stuffy Soiree just to remind myself that they're excruciating."

"Well, I already asked Lily," James broke in, seeking to abate the rising tension amongst his friends by diverting their attention away from each other and drawing it towards himself instead. His ongoing, troubled romantic saga with one miss Lily Evans was a safely familiar topic for the Marauders at this point.

Sirius barked out a laugh. "How'd that go?"

"Not well," James admitted with a sigh. "She told me she'd rather go with the giant squid than with me, which is saying something given the amount of slime that would involve."

Sirius winced. "Tough break, mate." And then, after a minute, wryly, "I guess you'll be going stag then."

James cracked up immediately, Peter following suit a moment later once the play on words regarding the other boy's animagus form finally managed to land. Remus, whom the other three were waiting to inform of the highly dangerous and illegal magic they'd involved themselves in on his behalf until they'd managed to actually achieve their full transformations, appeared confused.

"Why is that funny?" he asked perplexedly.

* * *

"Sirius," James wondered later as the two of them were leaving quidditch practice, his physical exhaustion making him particularly uninhibited and emboldening him to broach a topic with his friend about which he'd become increasingly curious. "Why aren't you dating Rebecca? Don't you want to be?"

"Not particularly," Sirius said simply, causing James to frown.

"Why not though? Don't you like her? You must like her," the black haired boy persisted.

Sirius shrugged. "Sure, I like her. That doesn't mean I want to date her. I barely even know the girl."

"You're sleeping with her," James said flatly.

"That doesn't mean I know anything about her beyond what gets her off," Sirius pointed out crudely. "And it doesn't mean she knows anything about me either, beyond the same."

James was looking increasingly worried, and Sirius struggled to shove down his irritation at his best mate's burgeoning expression of unnecessary concern. "Don't you ever talk?" James wanted to know.

Sirius sighed, exhausted by his current conversation as much as the hard quidditch practice they'd just endured. "We talk, just…not about anything serious."

"Ever?" James asked, baffled. Wasn't physical intimacy supposed to inevitably breed emotional intimacy? He swore he'd heard Evans say that last week when he'd been eavesdropping on her and Granger's conversation in the library. It had sounded plausible to him at the time.

"Like what?" Sirius challenged, clearly irritated. "My family?" He laughed harshly. "Yeah, that'd be fabulous pillow talk," he bit out sarcastically, shaking his head. "Look, James, Rebecca doesn't want to hear about any of that shite, and more to the point, I don't want to tell her about any of it. So just give it a rest, alright? We're not going to the dance, we're not going to date, and we're certainly not going to live happily ever after or whatever the fuck you're thinking. And that's just fine. Preferable even. So you and Remus can both get off my dick about it," he finished heatedly.

"Alright, alright," James conceded, holding up his hands placatingly. "I get it now. You're a slag."

Sirius laughed, James' frank statement having the effect of shocking him out of his pissy mood. "If you like, yeah," he admitted easily. It was probably true, after all.

* * *

A week before the Spring Soiree found Lily, Hermione and Dorcas squeezed together in a fitting room at Gladrags, the trendy clothing shop in Hogsmeade, attempting to find appropriate dresses for the dance.

After much consultation, mostly spurred on by Dorcas (who, of the three girls, was by far the most interested in the Soiree, and who had received the most pleading invitations from boys for her to attend it with them), the girls had decided to eschew dates altogether and go with each other as friends. Hermione was exceedingly grateful for this, as it provided her with a convenient excuse for turning down Grant Willoughby, a weedy, Ravenclaw fourth year with whom she shared a couple of classes, but had never spoken more than a few words to, who had asked her to accompany him to the Soiree shortly after it had been announced. Grant was nice enough, she supposed, and certainly intelligent and academically inclined given his house, but he had about all the personality as a wet piece of cardboard, and Hermione had absolutely no desire to spend any time with him outside of class.

Lily, to no one's surprise, had been asked by James Potter, whose invitation she had emphatically rejected, much to James' disappointment and everyone else's general amusement. The red head had later confessed to Hermione and Dorcas that Snape had asked her to go with him to the Soiree as well, privately, the Slytherin perhaps having been bolstered by her very public rejection of Potter. Understandably, Lily had felt terribly awkward turning him down, but she didn't have anything approaching romantic feelings for him, and their friendship had been growing more strained as of late anyhow.

The reasons for this strain had so far gone largely unspecified to her friends by Lily, but Hermione thought it probably had a lot to do with Snape's growing closeness to Mulciber and the Carrow twins. He had begun subtly distancing himself more and more from Lily in public, and Hermione was privately shocked that Snape had asked her to the dance at all, given the social repercussions he surely would have suffered in his house had she, a muggleborn, agreed to go with him. Lily had promised to save him a dance, but seemed relieved to have a valid reason to put the Slytherin off.

It seemed she had finally begun to acknowledge to herself two things which Dorcas and Hermione had long been convinced of; that Snape's feelings for her went much deeper than mere friendship, approximating something closer to romantic obsession, and that despite this, he had begun drifting further and further down a path which set him up in complete opposition to everything Lily valued. Hermione didn't envy the internal conflict he must have been struggling with, but nor could she find it within herself to sympathize much with the perpetually unpleasant Slytherin. Perhaps she was being uncharitable, but she couldn't help but feel that if Snape truly loved Lily, unselfishly, he would be unable to conscience cozying up to people who called her a mudblood and felt 'her kind', and Hermione's, had stolen magic from proper wizards and ought to be rounded up and kicked out of the wizarding world. Or worse. But Hermione was meant to be having fun picking out dresses with her girlfriends, and she knew it wouldn't due to spoil the outing by getting caught up in dark thoughts about Severus Snape.

The muggleborn shook her head, forcing herself back to the present, where Lily was currently wriggling out of a skintight, green dress with a deep v-neck. It had looked utterly gorgeous on her; complementing both her red hair and creamy skin tone, while setting off her eyes beautifully. Hermione and Dorcas were both insistent she choose it, and Lily was happy to oblige them, having grown sick by then of trying on gowns. Dorcas, predictably ostentatious, ended up going with a sparkly red number with a dangerously high slit, which was very leggy and made her look like the definition of a blonde bombshell. Hermione had initially gravitated towards a soft, periwinkle blue dress, but Dorcas had immediately declared it nowhere near daring enough, and far too 'twee' for her liking, whatever that meant.

Eventually Hermione found herself forced by her friends into a sleek, black, sequined dress with a v-neck as equally deep as Lily's selection, and slit not quite as high as the one on Dorcas' gown, but still sufficiently daring enough for the blonde.

"You have great legs, Granger, you ought to show them off properly once in a while," Dorcas said sagely as the three of them surveyed Hermione in the mirror.

The black gown clung to and emphasized curves Hermione hadn't even been aware she had, and she thought she had never looked more grown up. She raised a hand to her scar, which was on full display with the cut of the gown, glancing unsurely from Lily to Dorcas. While she'd grown much more comfortable with her disfigurement over the past year or so, she'd certainly never worn something that showcased it so obviously before.

"You look amazing," Lily whispered, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

"Too right," Dorcas said authoritatively, leaving no room for argument.

"Alright," Hermione conceded softly with a smile, and then, her confidence growing the longer she looked at herself in the dress, "I'll take it!"

* * *

The Spring Soiree was now fast approaching, and as of three days out, _none_ of the Marauder's had yet managed to find anyone to escort. James was unable to so much as contemplate going with anyone but Lily, which ruled him out entirely, and Sirius, though he'd been asked by numerous girls who weren't Rebecca Forrester, was rather ambivalent about the whole thing, and had only agreed to tag along with James at the last minute out of a kind of fraternal solidarity.

"We're pathetic," Peter moaned two days before the dance, flopping despondently down onto the sofa in the Gryffindor common room after having been turned down by yet another girl.

"Speak for yourself, mate," Sirius said irritably, not bothering to look up from the difficult Transfiguration essay he was in the midst of. "I could be going with any number of girls if I wanted to, but the only reason I'm going at all is because this sad sack here, " he gestured rudely at James, "is still upset about Evan's rejecting him for the hundredth time."

"Three hundred and seventh," James said sadly.

Remus looked up from his own Transfiguration essay, shocked. "Godric, you haven't kept count have you?"

James nodded.

"That _is_ pathetic," Sirius declared.

"Stop being an arsehole," Remus admonished him, going back to his essay.

"Can't, it's in my nature," Sirius retorted cheerfully. Remus rolled his eyes.

"Remus, why aren't you going with anyone?" James asked curiously, eager to distract himself from his own romantic woes. "I know Julia Michaels from Hufflepuff would say yes if you asked her, she's always staring at you all moony during History of Magic."

"Moony for Moony," Sirius said with a smirk. Peter snorted.

Remus had hunched himself further over his Transfiguration essay, studiously avoiding the eyes of his fellow Marauder's. He always tensed up whenever anyone brought up the possibility of someone fancying him, and this was no exception. "There wouldn't be any point, with Julia Michaels or anyone else," he said shortly. "It can't go anywhere, not with my furry little problem looming in the background."

"Moony," James started softly, looking troubled.

"Don't James," Remus said stonily, effectively shutting down the topic.

* * *

In a shocking twist, Peter Pettigrew ended up being the only one of the Marauders to actually secure a proper date in time for the Spring Soiree, though it had to be said that none of the others really seemed to be trying very hard; not since James had asked Lily anyhow. Lucy Tiggs, a quiet sort of girl the year above them in Gryffindor, had agreed to go with Peter out of the blue on the evening before the dance. Sirius speculated unkindly, but perhaps not entirely inaccurately, that she had done so just to shut Peter up. His constant whinging about his lack of a date had begun to grate severely on everyone's nerves by that time, and a relief from it was not unwelcome, even if it had come late.

Dorcas had a theory of her own about the odd, last minute coupling. "I heard she was going with a Ravenclaw boy in her own year, but he canceled on her at the last minute. Threw her over for a sixth year Hufflepuff, the sodding prick. I think Lucy just didn't want to miss the opportunity to wear her dress," the blonde explained the following night, as she, Hermione and Lily were getting ready for the dance.

"Too bad," Lily hummed sympathetically, putting the finishing touches on her eye makeup.

"Not for Pettigrew," Dorcas said wryly. "Even if he was a last ditch replacement, you can bet he's pleased as punch to be going with a date at all, especially since none of the other Marauder's have one. Ironic, that, given that he's by far the least good looking of them."

"Rude!" Lily admonished, though the red head was forced to raise a hand to her mouth (taking care not to smudge her lipstick) in order to hide a guilty smile of amusement. Hermione simply shrugged. She didn't disagree with Dorcas' assessment, even if it was unkind. Pettigrew was an unpleasant sort of boy anyway, she felt, beyond his uninspiring physicality. There was just something off-putting about him.

"Rude but undeniably true," Dorcas said flippantly as she scrutinized herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair one last time, before smiling brilliantly, clearly pleased with her appearance. As well she should be, Hermione thought with a fond smile. The blonde looked absolutely stunning.

Hermione evaluated her own reflection, brown eyes trailing up and down the form of her body before pausing to linger on her exposed sternum and the prominently displayed scar there. She felt Lily come up behind her, the slightly taller girl resting her chin on Hermione's shoulder.

"You look beautiful," she whispered, and Hermione smiled, meeting her friend's eyes in the mirror.

"So do you."

"We all look bloody amazing," Dorcas declared, nudging her way between Lily and Hermione and linking arms with each of them. "And now," she continued grandly. "I think it's time for us to go cause some heart palpitations and party!"

* * *

The Great Hall was lavishly decorated to the point where Hermione thought it was verging on mildly distasteful. Judging by the way Narcissa Malfoy (Black, as she still was in this time, Hermione reminded herself) was wrinkling her nose, she wasn't the only one. As she surveyed the seemingly endless ropes of variously colored fairy lights strewn liberally throughout the hall, as well as the elaborate flower arrangements, some of which were taller than her, placed every few feet like gaudy obstacles just waiting for some poor, uncoordinated person to stumble into them and be swallowed up by flora for the duration of the evening, Hermione had no trouble detecting Professor Slughorn's distinct influence and aesthetic in the decorative choices of the Spring Soiree.

"Are those actual fairies trapped inside the lights?" Hermione asked with alarm as she, Lily and Dorcas passed close by a set of amethyst colored ones on their way to securing a table in the far left corner of the hall ("Perfectly positioned for people watching," Dorcas had explained as she set about dragging them towards it). "That can't be humane!"

"Relax, Hermione, fairies are very vain, they like being objectified," Dorcas said flippantly, shoving a glass of electric blue, allegedly non-alcoholic punch into the curly haired witch's hand and brandishing one at Lily as well. "And tonight, in this dress, I'm rather of the same mind as the fairies!"

"You're ready to be objectified?" Hermione asked, taking a cautious sip of the blue punch and finding it surprisingly pleasant. She raised an eyebrow. "By whom?"

"Anyone and everyone," Dorcas said archly, spreading her arms as though to encompass the entirety of the packed Great Hall.

Lily laughed. "So much for women's lib."

"Oi," Dorcas protested, giving Lily a playful shove, causing the red head's own, untouched blue drink to slosh within her glass, dangerously close to spillage. Lily hurriedly took a sip. "We collectively rejected countless, eager male escorts in order to come to this thing together as girlfriends, I think we're doing enough for women's lib. We can't help it if the boys still pant after us, we are dressed for it, after all," Dorcas pointed out, not unpractically.

Hermione had never felt more exposed in her life. She was certain she'd felt more than one set of eyes lingering on her that night, and she was unused to the attention. As of yet, she was also unsure how she felt about it. Dorcas, naturally, was eating it all up, taking it as her due, and Lily seemed fairly neutral, though she had huffed exasperatedly when James Potter had very clearly mouthed 'bloody hell' the moment he'd caught sight of her, and seemingly been so overwhelmed by the sight of her in her dress that he'd had to sit down for a moment.

The Marauder's were very well turned out themselves, Hermione couldn't help but notice. She'd never seen them look so formal before, it was almost jarring. Black, in particular, because he had chosen to forgo formal dress robes in favor of a dark, muggle suit. Ever the rebel, she thought as she appraised him, not conscious of the fact that she had begun smiling in fond amusement, though it didn't escape the notice of her friends. Where Black had even gotten such a garment Hermione couldn't possibly fathom, but she had to admit that he did look good in the suit. More like a man than a boy. Muggle clothes suited Black, she decided. He wore them with an ease that was, in Hermione's experience of the wizarding world, quite unusual for a pureblood.

Potter, in contrast to Black, was the absolute picture of a traditional pureblood heir in a set of rich, well-made dress robes. Hermione tore her eyes from him quickly, finding herself, as she sometimes did, unable to look at James for very long without being confronted with a vision of what Harry might have looked like now, had she not fallen out of her old life as his best friend and landed in this new one. She refocused her gaze on Remus, who was looking quite nice in a pair of only slightly battered dress robes. He looked a bit tired as well, Hermione thought, but then, Remus usually looked a bit tired. What with his lycanthropy, his choice in friends (the Marauders were certainly a handful), and his study habits, you could usually count on Remus to be some degree of exhausted. Pettigrew, she supposed, was off with his date somewhere, and Hermione wasn't overly invested in trying to find him just to learn what type of dress robes he'd decided on.

"Do you think they spiked the punch?" Lily wondered suspiciously, jerking her head in the direction of the three visible Marauders before taking another wary sip of her drink.

"Definitely," Dorcas said immediately, and Lily choked slightly, hurriedly setting down her glass. "Relax, Lils," the blonde assured her, patting her gently on the back. "I'm pretty sure it's just champagne."

Hermione suspected Dorcas was right, but that wasn't enough to get her to abandon her own drink. The punch, whatever happened to be in it, was actually _quite_ good, and the brunette was beginning to feel very pleasantly, atypically relaxed.

Which is probably why she said yes when Amos Diggory asked her to dance.

"You look beautiful," the blonde, Hufflepuff told her as they glided about the dance floor, deftly avoiding flower arrangements as Diggory steered them and Hermione followed after. Maybe it was the champagne, but for once she was perfectly content to let herself be led.

She smiled. "Thank you."

All Hermione really knew about Amos Diggory, never having actually spoken to him before, was that he was a Hufflepuff sixth year, a chaser on his House Quidditch team, and the eventual father of Cedric Diggory, though she had no inclination as to the witch who would be his eventual mother. It certainly wasn't going to be her, but that didn't mean that she couldn't engage in benignly pleasant small talk with Hufflepuff boy. And certain things beyond benignly pleasant small talk.

"Is that a tattoo?" Diggory asked, gesturing somewhat awkwardly at her chest.

Hermione actually laughed, though not unkindly. " A scar," she supplied.

Diggory flushed slightly. "Oh, er, well, it's very pretty for a scar, if you don't mind me saying."

"Thank you," Hermione murmured, possibly a bit flushed herself, though that might just have been as a result of the champagne. It seemed Sirius Black wasn't the only one who didn't find her scar entirely objectionable.

* * *

"You're glaring at Amos Diggory," James pointed out to Sirius. His friend and fellow black haired Marauder was slumped petulantly in a fussily upholstered chair at the table they'd staked out, exhibiting absolutely abhorrent posture, and glaring at Amos Diggory.

"He's just so blonde. It's fucking irritating."

"No, you're fucking irritating," Remus said, causing both James and Sirius to turn to him in shock. The werewolf was notoriously mild mannered, at least this far away from a full moon, and it wasn't like him to swear so colorfully.

" _What_ is your problem lately, Moony?" Sirius demanded, spitting out the question. "You've been in a mood for weeks now and it's getting old."

"You two are my problem!"

"Me? What did I do?" James wanted to know.

Remus folded his arms across his chest and leaned in close to James and Sirius. "You want to know why I didn't ask anyone to the dance, James?" he whispered viciously.

"Because you're unnecessarily worried how your being a werewolf is going to affect your romantic prospects?" the bespectacled boy ventured cautiously.

Remus actually looked as though he might hit his friend. "It's not unnecessary!" he hissed, struggling, in his frustration and anger, to keep his voice appropriately low. "For Godric's sake! Most girls aren't going to be interested in me after they find out what I am! Most girls would probably report me to the Ministry!" He paused briefly, collecting himself a bit, before pinning James and Sirius with a hard edged, significant look. "And the only two girls, besides my own mum, who've ever known what I am and not cared, you two have them earmarked as off limits."

They could not possibly mistake his meaning. There were only two girls who knew about Remus' lycanthropy and they were Lily Evans and Hermione Granger.

James fell back heavily in his chair, blinking at Remus in the aftermath of the furious words the werewolf had so unexpectedly unleashed, stunned. "You mean Evans," he said faintly. "Do you like Evans, Remus?"

Remus sighed tiredly. "I don't know, James. Lily doesn't—she doesn't treat me any different now she knows what I am, and that's a big deal."

"I don't treat you any differently either!" James said earnestly.

"And that means more to me than you'll ever probably know James," Remus said, voice thick with emotion. "But you're not a girl."

Weighty silence descended over the three boys in the wake of this statement.

"I don't have any sort of claim over Granger," Sirius broke in eventually, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He was frowning at Remus. The fact that the werewolf thought that he, Sirius, had some kind of claim on the witch both perplexed him and made him uncomfortable.

"You wouldn't be pissed off with me if I asked her out?" Remus challenged.

"No!"

"You've been glaring at Amos Diggory for the past five minutes Sirius! Forgive me if I don't think it's a coincidence that you started right around the time he asked Hermione to dance."

"Because Amos Diggory is a fucking twat, Remus! You're my friend! I don't care if you ask out Granger, you can bloody well do what you want!"

"I'm not saying I want to ask her out!"

"Well then what's your fucking point?"

"That I couldn't if I wanted to!"

"Because of me?" Sirius asked incredulously. "Don't blame your inferiority complex on me, Remus. If you want to ask out Granger, ask her out. Nothing's stopping you. I'm not your fucking keeper, and I'm sure as shit not hers."

"Godric, you're in denial," Remus muttered. "At least James is aware of how hopelessly gone he is on Lily."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sirius demanded.

"Exactly what it sounds like."

"Stop it, both of you," James cut in, the unusual gravity in his voice having its intended effect and stopping both Remus and Sirius cold. He slung an arm around each of them, and though neither seemed exactly receptive at the moment, they didn't protest. "We're the Marauders, lads," James said entreatingly. "Our friendship is more important than girls, yeah?"

"Right," Remus acknowledged gruffly after a moment.

"Right," Sirius echoed, slumping back in his chair once more, the fight having left him.

"Okay then," James said, looking well pleased with himself for having semi-successfully abated the tension between his two best friends, momentarily anyway. He wasn't deluded enough to think they wouldn't fight about this again, but then, Sirius and Remus were usually arguing about something, so James wasn't overly worried. The two of them always sorted things out in the end.

"For the record, though, Remus, I would be upset if you asked out Evans," James added after a beat.

Remus sighed. "Yes, James, I know," he said patiently. Sirius snorted.

A few moments later, the somewhat awkward silence which had descended over the Marauder's table was interrupted by an unexpected source; Narcissa Black.

"Cousin," she greeted imperiously, addressing only Sirius.

He flicked his eyes at her disinterestedly. She looked as beautiful as ever, but that was to be expected. Narcissa wasn't dangerously clever and intense like Bellatrix, or independent and brave like Andromeda; she was pretty. Narcissa had always been prettiest of the Black girls, if far from the most magnetic of them. That night, clad in a sleek, silver blue gown which set off her eyes and pleasingly emphasized the paleness of her skin, she'd transformed herself into a true ice princess. It was very fitting.

"What do you want Cissy?" Sirius asked.

Narcissa jutted her chin slightly forward, subtly asserting herself. "It's terribly rude of you, don't you think Cousin, that you've not yet asked me to dance," she suggested idly. Or in a way that would have passed for idle if you weren't overly familiar with the passive-aggressive style in which those in the old, pureblood circles tended to interact with one another, which Sirius unfortunately was. The Black heir had little interest in engaging in those sort of social games though, and possessed a similar lack of desire for dancing with his cousin.

"Why should I?" he asked carelessly. Sirius could really think of no good reason for subjecting himself to such an activity.

Narcissa smiled thinly. " _Because we are kin,"_ she said quietly, but with particular emphasis.

Sirius narrowed his eyes at her, studying his cousin for a moment, and eventually deciding that it was highly unlikely she'd leave him alone unless he granted her a dance. Narcissa rarely, if ever, sought him out at Hogwarts. If Sirius recalled correctly, the two of them hadn't even spoken since the previous summer, and that had been merely in passing. They had never been all that close, and Sirius' Gryffindor sorting had only widened the gap between the cousins. For Narcissa to approach him at all meant she must have decided there was something vitally important she talk to him about, and for her to do it publicly meant she either didn't care if people saw, or that she wanted them to.

Despite himself, Sirius was suddenly mildly intrigued. He hadn't thought anything of Cissy coming over at first. He was used to seeing Narcissa at balls; he had grown up attending them with her for almost the entirety of his wretched childhood. And as distracted as he'd been at the time by his and James' (mostly his, Sirius could admit) argument with Remus, not to mention the two glasses of spiked punch he'd already consumed that evening, it had only seemed natural when his cousin had drifted over. But now that he'd had time to stop and think, Sirius realized it was actually very strange that she had. Given where they were, the Great Hall at Hogwarts, the fact that Narcissa was standing in front of him and quietly insisting that he ask her to dance was, frankly, downright bizarre. What was perhaps even more bizarre was that Sirius was about to give her what she wanted.

"Alright," Sirius granted, standing up and straightening his suit jacket, eyes focused intently on his cousin, ignoring James and Remus' concerned frowns. "Let's dance, Cissy."

Narcissa wrinkled her nose. "That was hardly a proper request," she complained, but she extended her hand for him to take nonetheless, and Sirius led his cousin out onto the dance floor with the practiced ease of a pureblood who had been forced to endure dancing instruction as a child.

"What's this about, Narcissa?" he asked lowly as the pompous string quartet Slughorn had hired for the occasion began a waltz, the notes projected fully throughout the expanse of the Great Hall with the aid of magic.

"Can't a young woman simply desire to dance with her cousin of similar age?" Narcissa rejoined.

"I doubt it," Sirius said levelly. "Not in our family, anyway. Look, don't play games with me Cissy, I'm not interested in bantering with you. Make your point, whatever it is."

"Fine," she breathed, the movement of the dance bringing her in close to him. "I have heard rumors lately which trouble me regarding your branch of the family, and you in particular, cousin."

Sirius' jaw tensed. He thought he had a fair inclination of where this conversation was headed now, but still he asked. "What rumors?"

Narcissa's eyes darted briefly away from his own. "There is talk of disownment."

"Of me," Sirius said flatly.

"Of you, yes," Narcissa confirmed.

"And you're surprised by this, Cissy?" he asked, unconvinced of her ignorance. "My parents have been talking about disowning me for years now, especially since Reg was sorted."

"Yes, well now they're talking to my parents about it," Narcissa snapped, clearly displeased by Sirius' insinuation that she was some kind of naïve twit. And if what Cissy said was true, that his parents had now formally involved his Aunt and Uncle in discussions of his potential disownment, that _was_ a fairly significant development. It wouldn't be long now, Sirius realized numbly.

He was surprised that Cissy was even telling him this. Sirius wouldn't have thought she'd care, but apparently the blonde was capable of surprising him.

"They'll do to you what they did to Andy, Cousin," she said softly, when he'd gone a minute without responding to her.

"You think I give a shit?" Sirius asked, forcing himself back to his current conversation. He _didn't_ give a shit. Honestly. What would have been the point?

Narcissa bristled slightly at his language, before narrowing her eyes at him; eyes which were the same stormy, grey color as his own. His cousin may have inherited her hair color and complexion from her Rosier side, Sirius reflected, but her eyes were all Black. "You should," she said firmly.

"Why?" Sirius demanded, ready to argue now. It was an arena he was comfortable in, and the familiarity of the back and forth ritual was soothing. "And why do you?"

"You are still family," Cissy said tightly, eyes bright with some kind of underlying urgency which Sirius didn't quite understand, or didn't want to.

"For now."

"For now," Narcissa agreed, voice clipped. She was becoming frustrated, struggling to maintain the mask of pureblood impassivity which had been bred into her as a necessary affectation since birth. Sirius had always had that effect on his family. "I don't know why I bothered trying to talk to you," his cousin hissed lowly. "You are as reckless as Bella, and far too young and stupid to realize what you're doing, much less listen to reason."

Sirius' eyes flashed. "And who are you listening to Narcissa? Bella?" he laughed harshly, the sound carrying, causing Narcissa to dig her nails into his hands in a silent warning which Sirius refused to heed. "She's always been fucking psychotic and you know it."

"She's my sister."

"She's insane," Sirius countered. "And so are you if you go along with her. Why don't you try thinking for yourself once in a while, Cissy, it might suit you."

"Such the high minded Gryffindor, aren't you Sirius?" Narcissa spat, her face almost entirely blank; the icy blonde's mild, outward expression serving as a incongruent juxtaposition for the anger which Sirius could clearly feel emanating from her in waves. "You're going to end up getting yourself killed."

"Maybe then I won't have to go to your engagement party," Sirius retorted. "How is Lucius? They make him a Death Eater yet?"

Narcissa's eyes widened fractionally. "What would you know about _that_ , Cousin?"

"I'm not as young and stupid as you think, Cissy."

"You are 15 years old."

"And you're 16, and both of us are already caught up in this war just by virtue of the family we happened to be born into."

Narcissa raised a delicate, blonde eyebrow. "You would call it war?"

Sirius sighed, exasperated. "What would you call it, Cissy?"

Narcissa didn't answer him, coming to a stop along with the music, the cessation of which signaled the end of their dance. Sirius dropped his hands from his cousin's, stepping back quickly, eager to get away from her.

"I was only trying to help," Narcissa said plaintively before Sirius could hurry off, too quietly for anyone else to hear. The anger had drained abruptly from her eyes, replaced by a muted sort of sadness. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Cousin."

Sirius watched as she glided away, elegant as ever, to rejoin her table of Slytherin friends, reabsorbed seamlessly into their company as though she'd never left to dance with her black sheep of a cousin.

He fingered the flask in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, more glad than ever that he'd brought along something with a little more kick to it than the champagne he and James had spiked the communal punch with. After that tête-à-tête with his cousin, he needed a fucking drink. And some air. Ignoring the concerned glances of his friends (Peter had ditched his date momentarily to join up with Remus and James) he shouldered his way through the crowd, making his way outside onto a balcony which had somehow been added as an offshoot of the Great Hall for the occasion. Sirius let the door slam behind him, uncaring, and immediately reached for his flask, taking a few heady gulps of the clear liquid within and enjoying the immediate warmth which bloomed in his chest as a result.

Someone cleared their throat, and Sirius turned, startled. He thought he'd been alone, but apparently he'd been so single minded in his quest for fresh air, alcohol and privacy that he hadn't noticed the balcony was already occupied.

* * *

Hermione cleared her throat, and Black nearly jumped, almost dropping his flask.

"Fuck, Granger," he said raggedly, turning towards her and using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Hermione refrained from pointing out that she'd been the one already out on the balcony when Black had arrived, and that, by all rights, he'd been the one to sneak up on her. "What's in there?" she asked instead, gesturing at his flask.

"Vodka," Black said baldly, seeming entirely unrepentant about it. "Want any?"

"No, er, thank you," Hermione demurred, taking a hasty sip of her own drink. There was something about Black's edgy manner just then that was putting her a bit on edge herself, and in that moment diluted champagne seemed like the best way to dull the discomfort.

It was just like Black to disrupt the mild, pleasant buzz she had been riding from the punch, Hermione thought somewhat petulantly, watching as he shrugged off her rejection of his offer and took another sizeable pull from his flask himself. She watched his throat as he swallowed, her eye unaccountably drawn to the motion. While it seemed to Hermione that there was something fairly innocent about drinking champagne spiked punch at a school dance, imbibing straight vodka was a bit more extreme than she was willing to go. Black clearly didn't share her reservations. Hermione turned away from him to face the balcony, leaning on the rail and training her eyes on the view of the Hogwart's grounds rather than the boy next to her, having decided to let Black self-destruct, or whatever it was he was doing, in peace. But Black had hardly ever been one for peace, in her experience of him.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked after a short while, coming to lean next to Hermione on the railing, invading her personal space in a way she suspected he was quite unconscious of. She shifted slightly in reaction, though not exactly away from him. The odd thought struck her then that Black's continual need for both companionship and tactility rendered him rather dog-like on occasion. She hid a giggle behind her hand. This wasn't an assessment she ever planned on sharing with him (dogs, after all, had been known to bite when properly provoked) but it wasn't an unflattering one to her mind.

Hermione tilted her head, regarding Black lazily as she belatedly considered his question. "The same thing as you, I expect," she said eventually. "Getting some air."

Black surveyed her, trailing his gray eyes deliberately over the line of her body before landing on her suddenly flushed face. Or had it been flushed for a while, Hermione wondered, as a result of the dancing she'd partaken in and the alcohol she'd consumed. As if able to read her thoughts, Black nodded in the direction of the half full glass of punch she held.

"How many of those have you had, Granger?" he asked curiously, an unexpected tint of amusement in his voice. The way he'd strode so angrily out onto the balcony and begun immediately gulping down vodka, oblivious to her presence, Hermione wouldn't' have thought Black was much in the mood to find amusement in anything. But whatever was bothering him, and something clearly was, he was obviously all too eager to be distracted from it by her.

"Three," Hermione said primly, indulging him.

"Me and James spiked it, you know," Black informed her, as though she might not be aware of this. He must have thought her terribly naïve.

"Yes, I had surmised as much," Hermione said dryly, briefly swishing the blue liquid within her glass before raising it to her lips once more and taking a small sip. "Despite the color, this tastes remarkably like champagne."

Black let out a soft laugh and shifted his body against the balcony railing, adjusting himself so that he was facing her more directly. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you, Kitten?" he murmured.

At his words, images of the ridiculous litany of secrets which she possessed and could never confess to anyone, least of all Black , danced to the forefront of Hermione's mind. "You've no idea," she muttered.

Black quirked an interested eyebrow at her. "When have you had champagne before?" he settled on asking, both because he was genuinely curious and because he thought it was something Granger might actually tell him.

"My cousin Cecelia's wedding," she admitted easily enough, her eyes far away with the memory of it. "My parents also let me try wines occasionally, but never more than a few sips."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. Since her arrival in this time, and more and more since she'd adjusted to living in it, the muggleborn witch had largely avoided thinking or talking about her family; especially her parents. It was endeavor both pointless and exquisitely painful, she felt, and after her initial outpouring of grief over the loss of them, Hermione had realized it was simply easier for her not to dwell on the subject of her family at all.

"So you've never had anything hard?" Black was asking, continuing to pester her about her drinking experience, though at first Hermione didn't realize that's what he had meant. Initially, with the alcohol she'd consumed muddling her brain somewhat, she'd taken his question for a far more impertinent one. The look on Black's face hadn't helped matters when it came to her interpretation. He was obviously teasing her on purpose.

"Excuse me?" she demanded.

"Liquor, Kitten," Black clarified, seeming deeply amused by her reaction. "Hard liquor."

Hermione let out a whoosh of a sigh, leaning back against the brick wall which made up the edge of the balcony and raising a hand to her flushed chest, the glass she still clutched cooling the hot skin there. "No," she conceded, "I haven't."

Black held out his flask to her once more. "Sure you don't want any, Kitten?"

Hermione narrowed his eyes at him, considering. "Oh, alright," she decided impulsively, shocking both herself and, judging by his expression, Black. "Just a sip, though."

Black nodded, and upon reflection Hermione thought he'd probably be rather cross with her if she finished off all of his booze, though he had been the one to offer it to her. Twice now. Setting her drained glass of punch down on the narrow balcony railing and reaching for the flask, she took notice of some embossed lettering on it which she'd missed earlier; the raised silver letters 'S.O.B.' glinting in the moonlight. Dear lord.

"Is this engraved?" Hermione asked disbelievingly, turning the flask over in her hands.

"Mmm," Black hummed, seemingly in confirmation.

"What on earth is a fifteen year old doing with an engraved flask?"

Black shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets now they were both free. "It was a gift from my uncle Alphard."

"Your uncle thought it was appropriate to gift you with an engraved flask?"

"I imagine he thought it'd come in handy, yeah," Black said wryly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "And has it?"

"Well, escapism has always been my defense mechanism of choice, so….," Black trailed off, letting his words and their implication hang in the air for a moment before shrugging once more.

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, beginning to delicately unscrew the cap of the flask. "I think mine is overintellectualizing."

"Shocker," Black deadpanned. "Just drink, Granger."

"Pushy," Hermione huffed, but raised the flask to her mouth at his urging nonetheless, suddenly very conscious of the fact that his lips had surely been where her own were about to be countless times before, including only a few minutes previously. Briefly cutting her eyes to Black, who she saw was watching her, Hermione took a tentative sip.

Her eyes widened. "That's quite good!" she said in surprise, licking her lips in the aftermath of her indulgence to catch the remnants of the alcohol on them. Hermione had expected the vodka to be far harsher in taste, but it'd been remarkably pleasant, actually. "It tastes like cinnamon."

"It's spelled," Black explained. "Takes the bite off it a bit."

"I suppose it does," Hermione mused, taking a second, slightly larger pull from the flask. "Clever."

Black eased it out of her hands. "Easy, Kitten," he advised. "It's stronger than it tastes, it'll hit you quick, especially if you're not used to it." He eyed her critically. "And you'll be a lightweight, I expect, so you'd best be careful with it."

Hermione moved her hands to her hips, adopting a show of light hearted protest. "A lightweight am, I?" she challenged, though she was grinning, cheeks flushed. "And how do you figure that one, Black?"

"Because you've never had liquor before, you're about five foot, and you weigh practically nothing," he pronounced flatly, nudging her slightly and causing her to stumble against him, which he felt only proved his point.

"I'll have you know that I am almost five foot two!" Hermione informed him through giggles, the alcohol she'd had becoming increasingly evident in her manner. "And how do you know what I weigh?"

"Christmas," Black said nonsensically.

"What about Christmas?" Hermione wanted to know, screwing up her face in puzzlement. "Oh!" she said after a moment,the memory of what he must have been referring to hitting her. "You picked me up!"

Black nodded, smiling a bit. "And if you keep drinking I might have to carry you to bed again tonight."

A pulse of something unexpected and hot shot through Hermione at the thought of what Black described, though in her current state the witch was mystified as to why she was experiencing such a thing or what it might have meant. Black must have been right, Hermione realized, the vodka and champagne were affecting her more than she'd thought. So why wasn't he affected? He'd had a great deal more of the vodka than she had, by her (admittedly currently impaired) judgement, and yet he seemed as normal as ever.

"Do you do this often, then?" Hermione asked Black, feeling disquieted all of a sudden, the smile falling abruptly from her face. Alcohol tolerance of the kind he appeared to be exhibiting couldn't have been, _shouldn't_ have been, normal for a fifteen year old boy, no matter how fast his metabolism might have been.

"What, drink?" Black asked. Hermione nodded. "Often enough, I suppose," he admitted, looking out at the grounds rather than at the girl beside him, who was suddenly peering at him with such earnest concern.

"Why are you doing it tonight?" Hermione probed, though there was a part of her that regretted having disrupted their earlier, jovial mood with her questions.

"It's a school dance, Granger," Black said, reverting to the use of her surname. "Can't I just be doing it for fun?"

"I don't think so," she said quietly, almost to herself. "At least not before you ran into me. I distracted you."

"And you were doing so well at it too, but you always have to push, don't you, Granger? Even when you're half loaded."

Hermione couldn't refute this, although earlier, when Black had first arrived and she'd been under the influence of less alcohol, she'd chosen not to pry into whatever it was that had been bothering him. It seemed it had been an ultimately unwise move on Black's part to offer her vodka, for it had loosened her inhibitions considerably when it came to inquiring about the reason for his upset that night.

Black took another swig from his flask, still not looking at her. "My parents are going to disown me," he whispered, not sure why he was confessing this to Granger, of all people. Except that she was there, and she had asked, and no matter what she thought he _was_ a bit drunk, and it didn't matter if he told her because everyone was going to know soon enough anyway. He'd known for years, so he wasn't sure why it stung so much to have it confirmed.

"Ah," Granger said sadly, though she didn't sound surprised. And why would she have been? Everyone knew his family hated him. "Black, I-,"

"Don't," he cut her off. "You don't have to feel sorry for me, Granger. Your parents are dead," he said bluntly. Though presumably they'd at least loved her when they'd been alive.

Hermione didn't flinch. "I guess we'll both be orphans then, won't we, Black?"

"I guess we will."

What Hermione really wanted to do in that moment, staring up at Black's closed off, but unmistakably bitter (and somewhere deep underneath that, she thought, desperately sad) face was to give him a hug. But she was unsure of how he'd react to the gesture, and she didn't quite have the courage to go through with it.

"Dance with me," she demanded instead, though it came out partially as a question.

"What?" Black asked, whipping his head around to face her.

"We can still hear the music out here, I just noticed. Come on. Dance with me, Black," Hermione cajoled. Now that she'd got his confession out of him, she was once again feeling all too amenable to being distracting.

"Alright," he acquiesced after a minute, though he still seemed confused.

He edged slowly towards her, reaching tentatively for her waist, though he gripped it surely enough once he settled his hands on it. Hermione wound her arms around his back, shocking him as she proceeded to fold her body fully against his and squeeze. Maybe she was brave enough to give him a hug after all. And if the way that Black, after a brief moment of stiffness, sighed and let himself sag against her was any indication, maybe he was willing enough to accept one, at least under the cover of a dance. They swayed together for a time, clutching each other tightly but not saying a word.

When the music faded and they finally, reluctantly, broke apart, Black appeared to have pulled himself together. There was something lurking in his eyes though; a storm of volatile emotion roiling just beneath the surface, barely contained. Hermione wondered what would happen when it eventually burst forth.

Black cleared his throat, dragging his eyes appreciatively over her black clad form once more. "You look amazing in that dress, Kitten," he said sincerely, voice slightly rough.

Hermione simply stared back at him, watching the way he looked at her and unsure why she felt unable to say anything in response. After a prolonged moment of intense eye contact, she broke Black's gaze, peering over her shoulder through the glass doors of the balcony and into the modified version of the Great Hall which lay beyond them. " I better get back to Lily and Dorcas now," Hermione said, feeling semi-regretful. "I've been gone much longer than ten minutes."

Black nodded his acceptance, leaning back on the railing and watching impassively as she prepared to head back to the Soiree, evidently having no plans to rejoin the party himself. "Thanks, Kitten," he said, just before she could slip inside. "For the company."

Hermione paused, her hand on the doorknob, turning to face him once more. "Take care of yourself, Black."

He smirked, but there was tinge of sadness beneath it, she thought. He'd taken up his flask again, and he raised it to her now in a ironic toast. "No promises."

* * *

 _AN: Sirius saying 'Get off my dick' near_ _the beginning of the chapter is probably anachronistic for 1970's Britain/Scotland but….oh well. Hope you liked this one!_

 _This is the last fourth year chap, and we're on to fifth year next time, which is when the real excitement starts as far as plot shit, to be honest. I'm excited to get to it! Hope fourth year was fun and didn't feel too compressed, I spent a lot more time in third year to kind of...have Hermione settle into the 1970's and get people's characterizations and relationships fully set. So my timeline has definitely sped up, and I hope it's seemed natural :)_

 _Please review, it makes me so happy to hear your thoughts!_


	22. The Complexity of Familial Relations

_**AN:**_ _You guys, I'm terrible. Writers block + work stuff = slowest update ever. I'm sorry! Thank you for all the love I've had in the form of reviews, favorites and follows in the meantime, it really does spur me on and I appreciate it so much! I love you guys!_ _ **Also, more than 350 reviews?! You guys are awesome, thank you thank you thank you!**_

 _And for reviewer IvyMoore, who wanted some more Hagrid and Hermione fam moments, there is a pretty significant Hagrid scene in this one! Hope you enjoy!_

 _ **CW:**_ _a fair amount of swearing, some weird creepy shit with blood, mild sex thoughts, homophobic language and themes of alcoholism (or at least problematic alcohol use)_

* * *

Chapter 22: The Complexity of Familial Relations

One of the first things Hermione had done upon her introduction to the wizarding world at the age of eleven was to become an avid reader of _The Daily Prophet._ She hadn't really had much of a choice. The troubling reality was that the _Prophet_ was practically the sole source of semi-reliable news for the magical community in the entirety of the United Kingdom. Unless one counted rubbish like _The Quibbler_ , which Hermione most certainly did not. She'd never met Xenophilius Lovegood (the young, upstart editor of said publication, launched in 1972) personally, but she _had_ met his future daughter, and as far as she could tell the apple had not fallen far from the tree _there_. They were both utterly mental.

So suffice it to say, that in her pursuit of news, Hermione was forced to resign herself to perusing the pages of the _Prophet_ every morning _._ It wasn't something she particularly enjoyed, per-se, but it _was_ something she found necessary. The _Prophet_ had always been known for its alarming, sensationalist headlines, but the summer of 1975 saw an increase not only in these, but also in subtly troubling tidbits of news scattered insidiously throughout the middle pages of the paper; things easily passed over or dismissed as innocuous. Unless you knew what to look for. Hermione, fortunately or unfortunately, knew all too well what to look for.

' _MID-LEVEL MINISTRY OFFICIAL MISSING—TWO WEEKS GONE AND NO SIGN'_ declared an item buried on page 8-A one early July morning. It wasn't until you read the blurb, of course, that you found out the official was muggleborn; a detail the author had clearly thrown in as an aside, and not because they thought it was of any importance to the story. People could be so short sighted, Hermione thought frustratedly, pursing her lips and taking a sip of her coffee. She'd begun drinking it black, which made it much harder to tell if the uncomfortable, wrenching sensation she'd begun experiencing in her stomach when she read the news in the mornings was from her coffee or the contents of the paper.

It was becoming more and more difficult now to ignore the coming war with Voldemort. At least it was for Hermione. Most of the writers at the _Prophet_ and the willfully oblivious buffoons running around at the Ministry still seemed perfectly content to ignore it, despite the increasingly obvious warning signs. Perhaps she was being a tad unfair though, Hermione mused, draining her coffee and shoving aside her paper for the day. She did, after all, have the benefit of a unique hindsight. Not that it seemed to be doing her much good.

Hermione sighed, beginning the work of clearing her breakfast clutter from the table. The ritual, if nothing else, was comforting. She was just depositing her empty mug in the sink when the telltale creak of the cottage door announced the arrival of her guardian. Hagrid had been conducting some business down in Hogsmeade that morning (business which he'd been deliberately vague about the nature of, and which Hermione couldn't help but note had taken place at a suspiciously early hour) and with his reappearance the young witch was reminded that she wasn't the only one aware of and worried about the coming war.

Hagrid had been quite busy that summer, and not just with tending to the Hogwart's grounds. Hermione knew, both because of her previously mentioned unique hindsight, and the additional fact that Hagrid couldn't keep a secret to save his life, that her guardian was very much involved in the fledging resistance against Voldemort. Hermione saw Hagrid much less that summer, as he was always rushing off to do this thing or that for something called 'The Order'. Despite herself, Hermione had quite begun to resent 'The Order'. She knew she was being selfish; the work the group was doing was obviously very important and wholly necessary, and she was proud of Hagrid's involvement in it, but she worried for him.

He'd survived this war the first time around, but who was to say her own presence in the 1970's wouldn't somehow alter his fate? Hermione watched as Hagrid fussed about with the old kettle on the stovetop, no doubt preparing to make them a spot of tea, and felt tears prick her eyes. She couldn't bear even the thought of losing him.

* * *

Summer always felt like purgatory to Sirius Black. The summer of 1975, bookended by his cousin Narcissa's engagement party in June, shortly after her 17th birthday, and the unexpected death of his Uncle Alphard in the last days of August, did nothing to improve his experience of the season. He spent most of the time between those two events shut up in his room, avoiding his family and splitting his time between coming up with ideas for the Marauder's Map (even though that was more Remus' baby than his) and working to prefect his animagus transformation. Sirius was positive he was close to a full animal transformation now; he could practically smell his own dog breath every time he meditated.

James and Pete, he knew from their letters, were both close too, although Peter _still_ refused to say what his animal form even was, no matter how often the other two prodded him about it. Sirius didn't understand what could possibly be so embarrassing, and thought Peter was being a right annoying little sod about the whole thing. He'd finally stopped trying to get it out of the other boy, well past the point of willing to put in any effort when they'd all find out Peter's animagus form soon enough anyway. The first full moon of the school year was September 20th, and all three boys were determined to be ready with their transformations by then. Moony had suffered enough by spent much of the summer of 1975 suffering by himself, though obviously not to the degree Remus did. At least he had his pet projects to focus on, and the isolation, though it made him stir crazy, was certainly a better alternative than the company of his family which he was forced to sporadically endure.

Narcissa's engagement party was predictably excruciating, though Sirius did at least have the satisfaction of being able to make a snide comment about Lucius Malfoy's slightly bent nose (Godric bless Granger) to the man's face. The newly betrothed couple was less than pleased with this, but it was by far the highlight of Sirius' night. Malfoy though, being Malfoy, couldn't resist a parting shot of his own, though in classic snobby, pureblood form he offered it in the guise of well intentioned 'advice'.

"I hear you've grown closer to that uncouth, little mudblood, haven't you Black?" he drawled, brushing briefly at his nose, obviously referring to Granger. "You spent all of last Christmas with her, did you not?" Malfoy continued. "Shut up in that dreadful little tower of yours." He adopted a theatrical shudder, and Sirius grit his teeth.

"What of it, Malfoy?"

The blonde shrugged affectedly. "Nothing, Black, really. No need to get defensive. I'm just saying that you might want to be careful with the girl, is all. There's something….off about Granger, wouldn't you agree?"

Malfoy's voice was airy and casual, but his creepily, light colored eyes were intense and focused on Sirius in a way that thoroughly unsettled the Black heir. "Something more than just her base parentage and her disgustingly dirty blood," Malfoy went on, his silkily, patrician tone belying the ugliness of the content of his words. Sirius could feel his nails biting sharply into his palms. He didn't even know when he'd begun clenching his fists.

"Yes, the Granger girl in particular, I think, even more than the others of her _kind_ ," Malfoy uttered the word with disgust, "does not belong in our world," he finished significantly, his statement as enigmatic as it was dramatic. Sirius really had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Malfoy," he growled, "but keep going, and you're headed straight for another punch to the nose. If you got your face fucked up by a little, thirteen year old girl two years ago, just think what I could do to it now," he said with a menacing smile.

"Is that a threat, Black?" Malfoy asked delicately.

"No!" Narcissa hissed, interrupting them suddenly. For all that his cousin had been clutching at her fiancé's arm for the duration of his and Malfoy's confrontation, Sirius had quite forgotten she was there. "I will have no violence at my engagement fete!" she cried shrilly.

"You should have considered your guest list more carefully then, Cissy," Sirius advised her, his eyes still locked with Malfoy's, though he was speaking to his cousin now. "Although I suppose it would have been rather hard for you to axe your future groom from it."

"I will not let you ruin this day for me," Narcissa said angrily to Sirius, tugging urgently at Malfoy's arm. "Let's go Lucius, please?" she pleaded. "I want to speak to Auntie Lucretia about borrowing her emerald tiara for the wedding."

Malfoy patted absently at Narcissa's arm. "In a moment, pet," he said, effectively quieting her, though she still looked distressed. "Be careful what you say to me, Black," he told Sirius. "We won't always be in the presence of women," (Sirius had to refrain from rolling his eyes. He had no time for Malfoy's sexist bullshit, and besides, he was much more afraid of his own cousin Bellatrix, lurking over by the dessert table and eyeing the dainty, pink macaroons Narcissa had chosen with clear distaste, than he was of Malfoy.) "and I daresay you won't have the protection of your status as heir to the House of Black much longer."

"What a loss," Sirius said sarcastically.

Malfoy raised a thin, blonde eyebrow. "You know not what you would so willingly give up, Black."

"Actually I think I'm pretty clear on what I'll be giving up, Malfoy," Sirius assured him venomously. "You two are welcome to it." He turned to Narcissa. "Enjoy your gilded cage, Cissy."

He spent the rest of the party hiding unashamedly in the Malfoys' ridiculous hedge maze, contemplating his own miserable existence within his family and wondering just what in the hell Malfoy had meant by his bizarre comments about Hermione Granger that evening.

* * *

Sirius was staring mindlessly up at one of the unmoving, muggle posters which he'd plastered to his bedroom ceiling. The one he was focusing on in particular featured a blonde, muggle girl in a red bikini sprawled suggestively across a motorbike. Sirius had stuck it up there, along with the rest of his posters, using a permanent sticking charm— so he supposed he couldn't say he'd never learned anything of value from his Mother, after all. He was just contemplating maybe having a wank (the blonde girl was very attractive, even if she wasn't moving) when Regulus burst into his room.

"Uncle Alphard is dead," his little brother announced breathlessly, dark eyes wide.

Sirius was still struggling to process the anomalous fact that Regulus was both in his room, and had apparently voluntarily sought him out (when was the last time that had happened, Sirius wondered vaguely-It had to have been years) and in his muddled state of confusion, it took him a moment to fully absorb what it was that Regulus had said. Which was that their Uncle Alphard was dead.

"What?" Sirius choked when it hit him, wrenching himself upward too quickly and banging his head on the stupid, ornate headboard of his bed. He felt sick suddenly, and disoriented; like being stoned, but in the worst way.

"Uncle Alphard is dead," Regulus repeated, adding a definitive little nod, which irritated Sirius for some reason. "Mother and father just got back from somewhere, the reading of the will, I think, and I heard them talking." He paused, glancing down at his shoes before adding quietly. "They were very upset."

"About Uncle Alphard's death or about the will?" Sirius asked slowly, rubbing absently at the back of his smarting head and feeling otherwise numb.

Regulus frowned, looking uncomfortable. "The will, I think."

Sirius grunted, dismissing that assessment for the moment. His uncle Alphard was dead. The man who'd taught him to play wizard's chess when his own parents couldn't be bothered; who'd openly encouraged his childish rebellions and had tacitly encouraged the more serious ones he'd begun to engage in as he grew up; who'd snuck him his first sip of alcohol, and gifted him with a flask for his last birthday. Dead.

"The funeral will be Friday, Mother said," Regulus informed him, breaking into Sirius' disjointed thoughts. "I'm sure we'll be expected."

* * *

Sirius tugged at the neck of his heavy, black dress robes. It was ridiculously hot the day of Uncle Alphard's funeral, which wasn't unexpected given that it was late August, but was particularly unpleasant given Sirius' attire; black, velvet dress robes. He shuddered. What idiot designer had even conceived of such a stuffy, torturous garment? Whomever it had been, Sirius certainly wasn't thanking them, and nor was he thanking his Mother, who had been the one to insist he wear the hideous robes in the first place. Not that he'd had many other options for a funeral, Sirius acknowledged to himself grudgingly. But still, most people weren't in fucking _velvet._

His cousin Bellatrix hadn't even bothered to wear black. She'd clad herself instead in of lowcut dress of very deep purple, as though she considered herself royalty, which Sirius figured she probably did. He hadn't been seated near Bella during the actual ceremony and eulogizing, but he should have known he wouldn't be able to avoid her completely at the reception. Why did funerals even _have_ receptions afterwards, Sirius wondered, watching wearily as Bellatrix continued to approach him where he was standing a little apart from his brother Regulus. As if anyone wanted to socialize after such an unpleasant and emotionally draining an experience as a funeral. Sirius had no desire to speak to anyone, much less Bella, and yet here they were, on the verge of what was sure to be an extremely unpleasant conversation. Bellatrix didn't engage in any other kind, at least not with most people, and certainly not with Sirius.

"Well, if it isn't the heir and the all important spare," she greeted them drolly.

Regulus, who had perhaps thought he'd been standing far enough away from his brother that he might escape Bella's attention, appeared both surprised and alarmed at having been addressed in such a manner. He nodded sharply at their cousin, before muttering something about hors d'oeuvres and scurrying off. Sirius held back a sigh. Reg had always been kind of afraid of Bellatrix, and not irrationally so, but Sirius thought that his little brother would have at least learned how to hide it better by now.

"What do you want, Bella?" he said shortly.

She widened her eyes, as though terribly surprised at his rude manner of greeting, which Sirius knew she really wasn't. "Why nothing at all, Cousin, Narcissa and I simply wanted to say hello," she said, gesturing to indicate her sister.

Sirius cut his eyes to the blonde. He hadn't even noticed she'd been following behind Bellatrix until the black haired witch had called his attention to her. Narcissa was normally luminous, she was that pretty, but she always shrunk somehow in the presence of her oldest sister. She looked a bit atypically sallow today as well, Sirius noticed. Maybe she was actually upset about Uncle Alphard's death. Or maybe black just wasn't her color.

"The extended family is all here I see," Bella observed, fanning herself as she appraised the assembled crowd. "Such a pity Uncle Alphard didn't have an immediate one of his own, but I suppose that's what happens when one never marries."

"And why do you suppose he never married?" Narcissa asked softly.

"Are you daft, Cissy?" Bellatrix asked sharply, turning to her. "The man was a queer," she said definitively, voice dripping with disdain, though Sirius was unsure if it was for Uncle Alphard, her sister, or both of them. "The entire family has been well aware of his… _inclinations_ for years now, even if we don't like to speak of it. How could you _not_ have known? Don't you ever pay attention to anything besides Lucius and your hair serums? "

Narcissa didn't answer her, apparently having been rendered speechless with shock by the advent of this news. Sirius, though, wasn't surprised. Not really. There had always been whispers and rumors about the reason for Uncle Alphard's eternal bachelorhood among the family, Bella was right about that. Uncle Alphard had alluded to certain things himself on more than one occasion, though Sirius had usually been too young to fully grasp what he may have been getting at back then. He was far from that naïve anymore, but he also didn't particularly care one way or the other about what his Uncle's sexuality may have been. It was the 1970's, for Godric's sake. They had Bowie. Well, the muggles (and a select few wizards and witches who happened to be in the know) had Bowie. But Sirius had a feeling Uncle Alphard would have liked him, if he had known who he was.

"Of course, it wouldn't have mattered that he was a poof if he had just gotten married anyway," Bella was saying. "No one cares who you fuck on the side, as long you don't debase yourself by breeding with a mudblood," she said caustically, and Sirius' mind flashed automatically to her sister Andromeda, who had been ejected from the family for committing just such an offense. He glanced at Narcissa, who was holding herself even more stiffly than usual and staring fixedly at the ground, her posture lending her an appropriate aura of grief (given the setting) while also allowing her to avoid both his and her Bellatrix's eyes. Sirius wondered if Cissy was thinking of Andy as well now. He figured she must have been. Narcissa wasn't as unfeeling as she often pretended to be, or at least Sirius didn't think she was.

"But old uncle Alphard couldn't even bring himself to do the bare minimum by marrying properly and pumping out a couple brats to continue the family line," Bellatrix continued blithely, unimpeded in her condemnation of the man whose funeral they were attending by either tact the specter of her own disowned sister, which she'd no doubt purposely conjured in an attempt to get a rise out of her companions.

"Selfish of him, really," she continued, using the pointy tip of one of her overly long fingernails to pick at the cuticle surrounding another. As ever, Bellatrix was too rough, and blood began to seep slowly from her nailbed, the black haired witch watching with detached interest as it began to bead up in dark little drops and gather at the tip of her finger. Then, locking eyes deliberately with Sirius, she raised her finger to her smirking mouth, licking away at the blood which had pooled in her nailbed and begun to slip in sticky, red rivulets down the length of her finger, letting out a satisfied 'mming' sound as she did so. It was grotesque, and Sirius was sure Bella was able to see the naked revulsion on his face which her little display had provoked. No doubt she was feeling quite satisfied with herself; Bella had always liked to shock.

"What's the matter, Cousin?" she asked silkily, having released her still bleeding digit from her mouth with an obscene pop, smearing a faint line of blood just above her lip in the process. "Not getting squeamish about a little blood, are you?"

Bellatrix reached forward suddenly, clawing at his cheek with her finger before Sirius had time to jerk away, leaving behind a mixture of her blood and saliva on his skin. "We do share it after all," she reminded him, as if he'd ever be able to forget the horrifying reality of his own family.

Sirius lurched away from her belatedly, swiping desperately at his cheek, and Bellatrix laughed throatily in response. She was fucking _sick_. Sirius had known that for years, but this was a new level of brazen dementedness, even for Bella.

Her laughter ceased abruptly, and she focused her gimlet gaze on him with renewed intensity. "It's not my bodily fluids you need to be worried about contaminating yourself with, Cousin," Bellatrix said warningly. "We all know what you get up to at school."

Sirius thought of Rebecca Forrester, of her hazel eyes and her soft hair, and the way it had felt to slide into her wet heat for the first time. And then, oddly, as his memories associated with her were much less overtly erotic, he thought of Hermione Granger; of sharing a flask (the flask Uncle Alphard had given him) with her last May, watching as she put her lips where he'd just had his own; the feeling of her body tight against the length of his as they'd danced; that first, accidental touch of her breast when they were 13; her scar, and the way she'd touched his own now long faded one.

"Fuck off, Bella," he spat, turning way from her, suddenly unable to stand looking at her any longer. Gods, he fucking hated his family. And now one of the only members of it he'd even remotely liked had gone off and died.

Bellatrix was laughing again, inappropriately loudly (as if there were really any acceptable volume with which to laugh at a funeral) and Sirius saw Narcissa tugging urgently at her sister's hand out of the corner of her eye, presumably in an effort to quiet her. Some of the older adults of the family were beginning to cut the group of cousins disapproving glances, their critical eyes drawn by Bellatrix's shockingly open display of amusement.

"Bella, please," Narcissa hissed. The blonde was unused to getting any form of negative attention, especially from her familial elders, and she had a remarkably low tolerance for it.

Sirius himself had never had all that much inclination to adhere to the particularly stringent social mores of pureblood society, but they were at a fucking funeral. And it was Uncle Alphard's funeral, the one person in his acknowledged family (besides Regulus) whose death Sirius sincerely had cause to be upset about .He itched to be able to slap the laughter right off of Bellatrix's stupidly haughty face. He felt his hand actually twitch, but even he wasn't that reckless. Bella would probably whip out her wand and use an Unforgiveable on him right there in front of everyone. Either that or she'd just keep laughing.

Bellatrix had always been highly volatile in her moods, vacillating between indulgent amusement and blind rage when it came to being challenged, even as a young girl. Sirius had used to love to argue with her as a child, probably because Bella had usually taken the tact of indulgent amusement with him back then, before Hogwarts and all that his Gryffindor sorting had set in motion. Narcissa hadn't typically been that lucky, and Sirius had witnessed the blonde victimized by more than one burst of cruel, 'accidental' magic at the hands of her older sister when they were all children. He hadn't cared much at the time, truth be told. Sirius had found Narcissa prissy and unbearably annoying as a kid. She'd been his least favorite cousin, and he remembered guiltlessly doubling over with laughter that time Bella had set her hair on fire.

Sirius still found Narcissa to be prissy and unbearably annoying, but he had gained some measure of sympathy for her over the years. She was certainly no longer his least favorite cousin. That dubious honor now went to Bellatrix. As a child Sirius had been captivated by her. He still was, just in a way that was distinctly more horrified. The older Bella had gotten the more erratic she'd become, and the less Sirius found he was able to understand his Cousin, much less predict her. He suspected that his Aunt and Uncle may have thought that Bellatrix's marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange two years previously would have gone some way towards taming their wild, eldest daughter. But Bella was hardly the type of person to be restrained by anyone, and that included her new husband; if anything it seemed to Sirius that she'd become even more openly outrageous since her marriage to Rodolphus.

The dark haired man was across the room, sharing a drink with his brother, obviously perfectly content leaving his young wife to her own devices.

"Don't deign to lecture me on propriety, Cissy," Bella said now, having finally quit her manic laughter in order to harangue her sister.

It was slightly disturbing, Sirius realized, that he'd probably always think of his cousins, primarily and automatically, as 'Bella' and 'Cissy'; the familiarity, bred by years of childhood familial interaction with the two of them. He knew his cousin Andromeda still referred to her sisters by those names as well, though she no longer spoke to either of them, and hadn't in years. Through her, and their illicit continued communication, Sirius had seen that it was impossible to completely shed all of the vestiges of growing up as a Black, even after you'd been formally excised from the family. Andy was still a Black, even if most of them would no longer acknowledge her as such, and even if she had a new last name now.

Sirius knew that a similar future likely awaited him, though he couldn't picture himself married, much less with a kid. And as a consequence of his maleness, he'd also never be able to shed his last name, even if he did marry. Sirius would always be a Black, in name as well as in spirit. And with that wildly depressing thought, he let his eyes stray to the bar set up across the room. He'd have to walk past his little brother ( _Reg_ —Sirius would probably always think of him as Reg, no matter how far apart they drifted) to get there, but the payoff would be worth it.

 _If_ he could even get served, Sirius thought ruefully. He was still technically underage. Not that that typically mattered with this crowd. Black's weren't really allowed much of childhood. You didn't have to be of age to be forced into a marriage of convenience, or to be taught dark curses, or probably even to be compelled to join up with the bloody Death Eaters, so why should you have to be of age to drink? It seemed comparatively harmless, considering the alternatives.

"Running away, Siri?" Bellatrix trilled as he started towards the bar, breaking way from her and Narcissa.

"As fast as I fucking can," Sirius muttered, unsure of what he was more desperate for in that moment; alcohol or distance from his family. Both would be good, he decided.

* * *

"Hagrid," Hermione ventured one night in August, setting aside a letter from Lily which she'd been re-reading (Vernon and Petunia were now engaged, Lily was understandably distraught) in order to peer semi-anxiously up at her guardian across the table. She was conscious of the fact that she was about to broach an uncomfortable topic, but pushed on regardless. "Can I ask you something?"

Hagrid lowered his evening paper. "Aye, lass, what's on yer mind?"

"When you were expelled from Hogwarts," Hermione began awkwardly, watching as Hagrid shifted his large form to sit up slightly straighter in his chair. Hermione wasn't surprised she'd caught his attention, for although the two of them were now very close, Hagrid's expulsion from the Hogwarts, and the consequences that had resulted from it, weren't something they'd directly discussed much before.

Hermione forced herself to continue, keeping in mind that she'd have to be very careful how she chose her words. There was only so much she could plausibly know about the situation without Hagrid having related it to her himself, which he hadn't yet, not in this time anyway. "The boy who gave evidence against you," Hermione said slowly, and Hagrid stiffened further. "His name was Tom Riddle."

"That wasn't really a question, lass," Hagrid pointed out, seeming both wary and yet reluctantly proud of Hermione for having worked this out at the same time. Her guardian's pride in her was misplaced in this instance ,though, for Hermione was working with the benefit of prior knowledge he never could have dreamed she'd have access to. "An' how do yeh know that, anyway?" Hagrid wanted to know, narrowing his eyes.

"Tom Riddle received a Special Award for Services to the school the year you were expelled. I made an educated guess."

Hagrid raised a bushy, black eyebrow at her. "An' now let me ask you a question, Hermione. How much do yeh know about why I was expelled?"

"Students were being attacked by something. Some kind of beast," Hermione knew exactly what kind of beast, and the fact that the basilisk still dwelt within the walls of the castle here in the 1970's brought forth an unpleasant, metallic, bacterial taste in the back of her throat. It was akin to the sensation you had just before you vomited. Hermione forced herself to swallow, barreling on. "In the end, a girl died, and Tom Riddle fed your Professors the theory that it was one of your pets on a rampage that was responsible. He said you were protecting it. Didn't he Hagrid?" she asked rhetorically, not waiting for him to answer in the affirmative before she continued on. "So they expelled you."

"Aye," Hagrid confirmed, though somewhat warily. "An' who do you know all this from, then?"

"Dumbledore," Hermione said immediately, the lie sliding easily off her tongue. She'd become quite the practiced liar since her arrival in the 1970's. She wasn't sure if that was something to be proud of, but it certainly was a necessary skill if you were a time traveler. "He told me the bare bones of the circumstances of your expulsion before he made you my guardian," Hermione said, figuring that seemed likely enough. "He didn't mention Riddle though. I put that together myself."

"I'll jus' bet yeh did," Hagrid said wryly. "'An I suppose yeh've also worked out fer yerself wha' Riddle's gon' an' started callin' himself now, have yeh?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes," she affirmed.

Hagrid sighed, shaking his head. "I can see what yer thinkin', lass, an it don' make a difference."

"What he's become, what he's doing now, it casts doubt on his testimony against you, Hagrid!"

"In who's eyes?" Hagrid challenged her. "The Ministry don't even want ter acknowledge that Riddle, or You Know Who, as they're sayin' now, is a real threat, Hermione. They're certainly not gonna want to draw more attention to him by dredgin' up the false tales he told on me as a school boy. Not tha' most would consider tha' newsworthy, anyway. It's long past, an' not a lot of people even know that You Know Who used tah be called Riddle."

"Yes, the fact that he's a half blood might spoil certain people's image of him a bit," Hermione said bitterly.

"That it might," Hagrid agreed soberly. He leaned forward. "Listen, Hermione, I know yeh mean well, but the Minstry's not typically one tah admit when they've made a mistake. Tha's government fer yeh," Hagrid shrugged, affably enough considering the topic of discussion. "I've come tah my peace with wha' happened."

"Well I haven't," Hermione said stubbornly.

Hagrid smiled affectionately at her. "An' I love yeh fer that, Hermione, but yeh've got to let this go. Professor Dumbledore'd tell yeh the same as I am," he said definitively, as though that settled the matter.

Hermione sighed. She was well aware of Dumbledore's inclination toward inaction on the matter of Hagrid's case, having gone to the Headmaster about it last year and been completely shut down. Hermione had been hoping that she might have been able to convince Hagrid to appeal directly to the Ministry, but she should have known he'd defer to Dumbledore's authority on the matter. His loyalty to the Headmaster exceeded that of almost anyone's she could think of, and that was saying something.

There were also, as Hagrid had pointed out, quite a lot of reasons why the Ministry wouldn't exactly have incentive to go forward with overturning his case. Hermione had known all of that, but she'd still thought that going through the Ministry might be an avenue worth trying. Of course now that Hagrid had rejected the very prospect, she could hardly disrespect the man by going behind his back and attempting to go through with it on her own anyway.

"I just worry about you," Hermione said finally. "I _know_ you're doing work for the war effort, and I know it's dangerous, and you don't even have access to magic!"

"Maybe not on paper, but we both know better than tha', Hermione."

"Hagrid," she said frustratedly, "you can't just carry around a pink umbrella with broken pieces of a wand shoved into it for the rest of your life! It's simply not—not…practical!"

Hagrid looked around furtively, as if they two of them might have been being spied upon in their own cottage (a deeply unsettling prospect which hadn't before occurred to Hermione, though maybe it should have) and then, having determined they were indeed alone, leaned forward to speak. "Tha's not the only means I got of doin' magic, lass," Hagrid assured her, reaching out to grasp her hand.

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.

"Well, there's illegal wands fer one, very easy to get if yeh know where tah go, which I do," Hagrid told her, shifting once more in his seat before revealing, "an' I can manage well enough on me own withou' a wand, besides, if I gotta."

Hermione eyes very nearly popped out of her head. "Hagrid, you can do wandless magic?"

Her guardian nodded. "Aye," he said gruffly. "But mind yeh don' go spreadin' tha' around too far now lass, I'm only tellin' yeh so yeh don' worry so much."

"But, Hagrid, how did you ever learn?" Hermione asked, staring at him in wonder. "You didn't even get to finish your schooling!"

Hagrid shrugged, his demeanor both proud and yet also somewhat abashed. "Yeh pick up a few things stickin' around Hogwart's as long as I have, Hermione, even if yer not formally enrolled as such," he explained.

"I never thought of it that way," Hermione said softly. "That does make me feel a bit better, Hagrid, but it still doesn't change the fact that it's technically illegal for you to do magic."

"A lot of things we're doin' to try an' fight this war are technically illegal, lass," Hagrid said wryly, and Hermione nodded, accepting of that reality. The Order wasn't exactly Ministry sanctioned, as far as she knew.

"It's still not fair what happened to you," she said mulishly, remaining considerably put out on Hagrid's behalf. "Even if you have managed to work around it."

"No," Hagrid agreed. "It's not. But You Know Who has done a lot worse to a lot o' others than he ever did tah me."

Hermione hummed in agreement, knowing he was right. Thee two of them descended into a bleak silence for a time, both thinking of the atrocities which had already been committed by Voldemort and his followers. Hermione, for her part, was also far too conscious of that which was yet to come. Hagrid could likely use his imagination.

"Do you think," Hermione asked after a moment, "that any of the professor's at the time you were expelled thought that Riddle was lying about you? Do you think any of them suspected that he was the true culprit?"

"Professor Dumbledore, certainly, he's told me as such," Hagrid said, chest puffing up a bit. "Part o' the reason he kept me on all these years. Never believed Riddle's lie, never trusted 'im. Great man Dumbledore." He paused then, turning more thoughtful.

"Professor Slughorn, I thought, knew too," Hagrid said slowly, and Hermione leaned forward with interest at this unexpected revelation. " But I 'spect not till a bit later on. He and Riddle were real close when Riddle was a student," he relayed. "You Know Who was in Professor Slughorn's house, I'm sure yeh know. But in Riddle's seventh year I think he did somethin' tha' spooked Slughorn. Somethin' that made him see Riddle for what he really was. Or what he'd become, anyway. Never did find out what it was, though, but he looked a' Riddle different that las' year."

"Professor Slughorn," Hermione said faintly, struggling to take in this onslaught of new information. "I hadn't thought of that."

Hagrid flushed, as he always did when he thought he might have said too much. "Now don' go botherin' the man about it, Hermione, it's not yer business tah be pokin' into," he warned.

Hermione didn't bother with false reassurances, for that was _exactly_ what she planned on doing. Just what had Riddle done to so noticeably unease Professor Slughorn all those years ago, to break what Hagrid said had previously been such a close bond? Whatever it was, Hermione intended to find out about it. She settled back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest and letting her mind wander, already beginning to strategize. This coming school year had the potential to be very interesting.

* * *

 _AN:_ _Ohmygosh, this chapter was such as struggle for me, I'm sorry it's so incredibly late, but here it is. Better late than never, hopefully! Anyway, I hope you like it! Sorry for the lack of Hermione/Sirius interaction, but I did enjoy all the family stuff. Hopefully the next chap will come a lot more easily!_

 _Note on language: Queer isn't really a gay slur now, because it's been largely reclaimed by the LGBTQ+ community, but Bellatrix is definitely using it as such in the 1970's._

 _Fun fact: I once didn't go on a second date with someone because they had never heard of Bowie and they were like, 30 years old._


End file.
